Haunted by the Opera Ghost
by jamiepage19
Summary: Christine Davies discovers a gold ring in the cellars during a tour of the Opera House and accidentally takes it home with her. Bound to his ring, Erik suddenly finds his spirit trapped in a new place and time. Now he will do everything in his power to ensure that he is returned to his final resting place, even if that means becoming the Opera Ghost once more. Modern AU. E/C
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Greetings!

It has been a long time since I've written and posted a Phantom of the Opera story. In a sense, it feels like coming home.

This little plot bunny crawled into my head one day and refused to leave. The more I fleshed out the idea, the more I fell in love with it. The premise of this story is not something I have written about before, but hey, isn't taking chances and playing with characters and ideas what fanfiction is all about?

This fic is set in modern day, and should probably be considered OC. I've rated it T for some course language and minor adult themes. It will be mostly Leroux-based, but I'll also be incorporating some elements from Kay and ALW as well. The themes will range from romance, supernatural, horror, drama, and humor.

Finally, I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_ or any of its characters.

So give it a read and let me know what you liked or didn't like. I celebrate every follow/favorite, read every review, and respond to them every chance I get.

~J

* * *

 _Summary:_ _When Christine Davies discovers a plain gold ring in the cellars during a tour of the Paris Opera House, she pockets it with the intent of turning it in. But when she accidentally takes it home with her, she soon realizes that she's in for more than she bargained for. Bound to her by his ring, Erik suddenly finds his spirit trapped in a new place and time, inexplicably tied to the person wearing it. Now he will do everything within his power to ensure that he is returned to his final resting place, even if that means becoming the Opera Ghost once more._

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

Paris.

It was the final destination of a trip I had never planned on taking. When Ben and I talked about traveling, we had always talked about going someplace warm and tropical. Someplace where we could lounge on the beach all day long, sipping Mai Tais out of tiki glasses with little umbrellas in them.

Of course, we never made it to such an island paradise. We were both workaholics, prone to spending long hours at our respective offices. It didn't help that what little free time I did have after work had been devoted to taking classes at the local community college in the feeble hopes that I could one day find a more fulfilling career. Don't get me wrong. I liked my job, but I didn't want to be a receptionist for the rest of my life.

Looking back now, I guess it wasn't all that hard to understand Ben's motivation when he banged the leggy redheaded underwriter in the copy room at his insurance office last year.

"Carly gets me," Ben explained, attempting to justify his indiscretion as he loaded the last of his things into the trunk of his car. "She understands that I have needs. That I want attention, too."

I had nearly bit off the end of my tongue trying to keep from snapping back that I couldn't keep up with this selfish desire to always be the center of attention when I, in turn, was not afforded the same courtesy from him. But whatever. Let him go off to sow greener pastures with Carly. I didn't need him, anyway.

And just like that, five years of marriage went up in smoke.

What followed was a bitter and ugly divorce, during which both of us left our dignity at the door and proceeded to hurl insults at one another as we unleashed months of pent up resentment and frustration. I still cringed every time I thought about how petty and hateful we were to each other.

Fast-forward eleven months and here I was; a 28-year-old, divorced, college dropout still trying to put the pieces of my life back together.

"I can't believe that it's our last day in Paris!"

I blinked, Maddie's words pulling me back to reality.

"I know!" Rochelle whined. "Three days isn't nearly enough time to see the city!"

Glancing across the table I smiled at my two best friends. They had been my lifeline through the entire ordeal. It had been Maddie's idea to book a European tour, and both of them had convinced me to use a portion of the money I'd received from my divorce to go with them. I had been reluctant to go at first, but now I was glad I did. It had been the happiest two weeks I'd had in a very long time.

A waiter stopped at the edge of the table, pausing long enough to reach over and refill my coffee cup, and as he did so, the sun glinted off the belly of the ornate silver coffee pot and sent scintillating rays of light dancing all around us. I inhaled, breathing in a mixture of freshly brewed coffee and the warm summer breeze. Did it get any better than eating breakfast at an outside café in Paris? God, this was heaven.

Maddie took a sip of her orange juice and then set the goblet on the table and leaned forward with a grin, "What should we do today?"

Rochelle shot forward with such force that the dishes on the table rattled. "Let's go to the Paris Opera House!"

"Opera?" I made a face. "You want to see an opera?"

"No," she laughed, waving off the idea with the flip of her hand. "The opera _house_. And anyway, the Paris Opera house doesn't have opera anymore, not since it moved to the Bastille. But the building! The building is almost one-hundred and fifty years old, done in Neo-Baroque style, and is absolutely gorgeous! They give tours and I've always wanted to see it in person and who knows when I'll get another chance. Please, please, _please_ say we can go!"

"Your art-history major is showing," I chuckled and looked at Maddie. Maddie was kind of the unofficial leader of our group. Probably because she made all the decisions, since Rochelle and I were more laid back and preferred to go with the flow.

Maddie tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and shrugged. "I'm okay with it. Chris?"

"Fine with me."

The words were barely out of my mouth when Rochelle squealed and lunged forward, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she exclaimed.

A few of the café's patrons stopped their conversations and twisted around to plaster us with quizzical looks. I smiled nervously and pried her arms away from my neck. "You're making a scene," I whispered, squeezing her arm affectionately.

Rochelle blushed and hurried back to her seat. "Sorry," she said mechanically. Her excitement was contagious and as I watched her try to reign it in and ultimately fail, my heart sped up in anticipation of the day's events.

XXX

My first impression of the Paris Opera House was of its sheer opulence. Golden statues decorated each side of the lead-lined roof, while Apollo hoisted his golden lyre towards the heavens in the center. Depictions of Greek mythology were carved into the façade and bronze busts of Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Meyerbeer, and other famous composers paid homage to the musical geniuses of the past.

However, nothing could have prepared me for the inside. As we stepped into the Grand Foyer the breath shuddered from my lungs, my awed gasp bouncing off the golden walls and the high ceilings to echo all around me. My first thought was that I had walked into a palace, because what met my gaze certainly looked like it belonged to royalty. Giant chandeliers hung from the painted ceilings, casting a warm, rich glow throughout the foyer, and an immense staircase separated the first and second levels. Stealing a sidelong glimpse at Rochelle, I smiled that she was just as overcome as I was.

Trailing behind ever so slightly, I followed Maddie and Rochelle to the box office and listened with half an ear as Maddie inquired about the tour.

"Which tour do you want?" the lady behind the counter inquired.

"There's more than one?" Rochelle asked.

"Yes. There are two. The first one is the basic tour. You'll be taken to the _salon du glacier_ , the auditorium and backstage areas, the conservatoire, and the _foyer de la danse_. For an additional fee, you can select the second tour, which focuses on the more…," she paused, "haunted aspects of the theatre."

My head reared up, my curiosity piqued. "Haunted?"

The woman leaned forward. There was a gleam in her eyes, like she had a big secret that she couldn't wait to tell us. "I'm sure you have all heard the story of the Opera Ghost. He used to haunt this theatre, consumed by his love for an opera singer. His story is legendary and served as the inspiration for Gaston Leroux's book _The Phantom of the Opera_."

I shook my head. I'd heard of the musical, but had never taken the time to see it. Broadway really wasn't my thing. However, I had no idea that the play had been based on a book, or that the author of that book had found his inspiration in this very theatre. Interesting….

"The second tour," she went on, "includes all the areas of the first tour, and will also take you to Box Five, the dressing rooms, and concludes with a trip through the five cellars to the underground lake."

There was a lake? Inside the building? Now I was thoroughly intrigued.

The three of us ponied up the cash for the extended tour and followed the signs that told us where to line up.

" _Bonjour!_ " a pretty brunette in a red uniform greeted as we approached the waiting group of about fifteen people. "My name is Eloise, and I will be your tour guide today. If you will all gather 'round, we can begin."

Eloise waited until she had the group's attention and then started walking in the direction of the foyer.

"The Palais Garnier officially opened its doors to the public on January 5, 1875, but the construction of the building took nearly fourteen years to complete. War, the fall of the Second Empire, budget constraints, and an unfortunate discovery of water in the fifth cellar all served to hamper its progress.

"During the last part of the Victorian Era, the Opera was the place to see and be seen. And this," she gestured to the enormous staircase, her heavily accented voice echoing effortlessly around the rotunda, "the _grand escalier,_ was where the finest in society would gather to mingle. Masked balls, charity events, social gatherings…."

I wasn't listening. Eloise continued to talk in the background, her voice fading to a faint hum, as I lost myself in the artistry of the foyer. Light from the windows and the many chandeliers glittered around us, bouncing off numerous mirrors, marble walls, and the gilded gold ceilings.

She ushered us down a corridor and into the auditorium. A rush of warm red and gold tones washed over us as we walked in. My heart fluttered out of my chest, taking my breath along with it. Rows upon rows of lush red seats spread out before us, declining ever-so-slightly until they reached the massive stage. The curtains, which stretched almost to the ceiling, were closed, framed in by magnificent golden sculptures that instantly reminded me of angels and demons. On the sides, four different levels of box seats stretched along the perimeter. The crowning achievement, however, was the impressive chandelier that hung from the center of the theatre.

"This horseshoe auditorium is the largest auditorium in all of Europe, and can seat just shy two-thousand people," Eloise said. I glanced over at her, making eye contact briefly before craning my head back up again to stare at the chandelier. "Ah, I see you've noticed the chandelier. Designed by Charles Garnier himself, the seven-ton chandelier cost around thirty-thousand francs to create—an outrageous sum of money back in the day, I might add. But that is not all the chandelier is known for. You have all heard the story of the Opera Ghost, _oui_?"

The group tittered excitedly.

"Well, the official story was that one of the giant counterweights that holds the chandelier in balance broke off and fell through the ceiling, landing on a concierge and killing her instantly. But those in the theatre at the time suspected that story was merely a cover-up, and that it was really the jealous ghost exacting out his revenge."

I raised my hand. "I'm unfamiliar with this story," I said, feeling foolish and slightly out of place for my ignorance. "Would you be willing to elaborate?"

She stared at me like I had just crawled out from under a rock. Quickly schooling her look of disbelief into a more neutral expression, she smiled and cleared her throat.

"The Opera Ghost's story is a tragic tale of a disfigured musical genius. Rejected by the world for his gruesome face, which he kept hidden behind a mask, he built a home deep within the cellars. He would 'haunt' the building, tormenting the opera house staff, ballet dancers, and singers with threats until he got what he wanted."

"What did he want?" I asked.

"Power. Control, mostly. He involved himself with everything from the casting for the productions to the management of the theatre, and did so by blackmailing the managers. He used their fear to extort money from them every month, and demanded that Box Five," she pointed to an elaborate box next to the stage on the middle row, "be reserved exclusively for his use and no one else's."

Maddie crinkled her nose. "Okay, so it's obvious this guy wasn't a ghost. Why did they put up with him? Why not just call the cops or something?"

"Because if they did not comply with his demands, terrible things would happen. Like the chandelier falling. People would disappear, never to be seen or heard from again. The entire theatre lived in fear of angering him."

 _Jesus_ , I thought.

We started walking again, this time in the direction of Box Five. Eloise waited patiently as we filed up the stairs and everyone tried to crowd into the small area.

"It was here in this very box that the Opera Ghost first set eyes upon a young opera singer named Christine Daaé, and he immediately fell in love with her. He tutored her by pretending to be her Angel of Music, but when that was not enough, he kidnapped her and took her to his home located five cellars beneath the opera house."

I kept waiting for her to get to the "tragic" part of the story, but the more she went on, the more I was beginning to dislike its main character.

"Thankfully, her suitor, the dashing Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, rescued her from the Opera Ghost's clutches, and they were able to get away and live happily ever after."

She led us back down the stairs, where we circled around to the stage. It was even bigger up close than it looked from the auditorium. Various set pieces dangled from ropes from the ceiling, with a tiny metal catwalk weaving in between the panels.

"What about the Opera Ghost?" a young girl in the group asked.

"Yeah," Maddie chimed in. "If he was as much of a control freak as you say he was, why would he just let them get away?"

"No one knows what became of the Opera Ghost. Some say he died of a broken heart. Some say he left and never returned. Others claim to have caught glimpses of a black shadow in a mask prowling around the premises even to this day. There have been numerous sightings where I'm about to take you: in the cellars."

Rochelle nudged me with her elbow. "You'd better be careful, _Chris-tine_ ," she teased, emphasizing the syllables of my full first name. "Or you might just gain the unwanted attention of the Opera Ghost."

"Very funny," I muttered.

There was a noticeable difference in temperature when Eloise opened a door in the hallway leading away from the stage. She lit a portable lantern and revealed a small set of stairs leading into the first cellar. The air was chilly and had a musty smell to it, no doubt from poor ventilation and the years and years of collected dirt and dust. But there was something else, too, a heaviness that hadn't been present at any of the other locations we'd been to. It felt like we were intruding…almost as if we were being watched. A cold sliver of dread ran down the length of my spine, and I shivered involuntarily.

 _This is ridiculous_ , I inwardly chided myself. _Allowing yourself to get freaked out by a ghost story. A_ story _, Christine. Grow up._

I didn't believe in ghosts, and I wasn't about to start now.

Small, round fixtures were mounted on the walls of the cement corridors, lighting the way as we descended deeper and deeper beneath the surface, but they did little to chase away the gloom and the darkness that threatened to swallow us at any given moment. With each step I took, the greater the sense of foreboding became.

I don't know what I had been expecting to see when I first learned about the underground lake, but I'm sure it would have paled in comparison to what now lay before me. Inky black water stretched as far as my eyes could see, gentle waves lapping up against the stone columns that held up beautiful sweeping archways. It was hard to tell if the design served a purpose, or if it was for purely aesthetical reasons, but either way it looked like we had just set foot inside an ancient crypt. A thick fog hovered just above the water, lending even more to the otherworldly feeling.

Part of me was thrilled that we had decided to come here and take the tour. I would have never guessed that such amazing sights waited beyond the front doors of the opera house. I felt truly special for having witnessed them. The other part of me, however—the part that was currently trying to fight off the overwhelming urge to panic—couldn't wait to get back to the surface.

"…and somewhere beyond this lake," Eloise was saying, completely unaware of the mental meltdown I was having, "is the Opera Ghost's lair. No one has been able to find it. To this day, it remains one of the opera house's greatest mysteries. And that concludes our tour. If you will all follow me, I will lead you back to the main foyer."

She swung her lantern in an arc as she turned to leave, and as she did so the yellow light glinted off something shiny on the ground. I glanced around, but no one else appeared to have noticed it. I hesitated momentarily and then took my cellphone out of my pocket, using the flashlight feature to illuminate the area in question. Again, something sparkled in the darkness.

Phone in hand, I crept closer to the edge of the water and knelt down on the ground to investigate. When the light wavered over the area a third time I saw it. A gold ring, half buried in sediment. Using my index finger to dig a channel around it, I pulled it free from the dirt. I wiped it off on my jeans and then held my prize up to the light on my phone. It was a small, plain gold band. A wedding band, I realized, and my stomach did a flip-flop. Someone on a previous tour must have lost it. It wasn't hard to imagine it slipping off their finger—not with how cold it was down here. They had probably been beside themselves when they discovered it was gone.

I stood up to show Maddie and Rochelle. "Hey guys, look what I—" The words died on my tongue. I was completely alone. The tour group had already left the shore and was now making its way back up the corridor.

In that moment, I could have sworn I heard someone sigh. The sound made my hair stand on end. I let out a yelp and instinctively shoved the ring into my purse. I could turn it into the lost and found later. Right now, all I cared about what getting the hell out of there.

XXX

The rest of the day and evening passed uneventfully enough. Truthfully, though, I was glad. It had been a busy, albeit fun, couple of weeks, and I was tired. That, and my experience in the cellars of the opera house had left me feeling oddly out of sorts.

I parted ways with Maddie and Rochelle when we reached our hotel, promising to meet them for an early breakfast before we left for the airport. Once inside, I put my purse on the sideboard, kicked off my shoes, and went into the bathroom to start a bath. While I waited for the tub to fill I walked around the room and gathered all the clothing and other items I had strewn about. If I got a head start on packing now, it would leave me with less to do in the morning.

I paused when I picked up my e-reader. It was going to be a long flight home. I really needed to find something to occupy my time. Turning on the power, I opened the bookstore app and did a search for _The Phantom of the Opera_. It popped up at the top of the list. I hit the purchase button and set the e-reader on the nightstand to download while I went in to take a bath.

* * *

 **A/N:** Okay, so before you slaughter me, let me just say that this story is not anti-Erik. I loved the idea of introducing a character who didn't have any prior background knowledge of anything related to The Phantom of the Opera. So she is forming her opinions of Erik based on the opinions of others, and sometimes those people may be just a little bit biased. She'll have to do some research, and you'll have to keep reading to find out if her opinions change.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

What was that old saying? Home is where the heart is? I think it went something like that. Well, my heart wasn't necessarily in the place where I lived now, but as I pulled my Jeep Cherokee into the long asphalt driveway the following night I was happy to be home nonetheless.

After our divorce was finalized, Ben and I had been forced to sell our ranch-style rambler and split the equity down the middle. I had taken the majority of my half and used it to put sizeable deposit down on a quaint little two-story Queen Ann Victorian that was built around the turn of last century. The owner had listed it as a lease with the option to buy, and had agreed to let me make any renovations I wished as long as I purchased the property when the lease expired in two years.

The house itself had great potential. It had still retained much of its antique charm, hidden underneath the layers of ground in dirt and grime and old lead-based paint. I should have been ecstatic with all the possibilities for improvement it held, but I missed my old home. I missed the way things used to be.

It was well past midnight when I lugged my suitcase from the back of the Jeep and climbed the stairs of the big, wrap-around porch to the front door. Squinting to see through the darkness—I really wish I'd had the foresight to leave a porch light on—I fumbled with the keys on my keyring until I found the one that would open the door. Inserting it into the lock, I turned it and let myself in.

Inside, the house was dark and cool, and most importantly, quiet. Nearly twenty-four hours of airports, connections, and noisy planes had frayed the last of my nerves. I was ready to crash. Thankfully, it was Sunday, which meant that I could sleep as late as I wanted. I left my suitcase by the door, dropped my purse onto the end table next to the couch, and trudged up the stairs to my bedroom to get some sleep.

XXX

I woke to the warm sun beating down on my face, its gentle caress coaxing me from my sleep. Inhaling deeply, I stretched out my arms and legs, and then turned on my side and glanced groggily at the clock on my nightstand.

Holy crap. It was 2:40 in the afternoon!

Sitting up with a start, I flung the covers back and clambered out of bed, the head rush from the sudden movement making me momentarily dizzy. I knew I would be jetlagged, but I didn't think I'd sleep my whole day away.

Not bothering to change out of the oversized t-shirt and sweat pants I threw on before climbing into bed, I gathered my chin-length sandy blonde hair into a small, haphazard ponytail and headed downstairs to brew a pot of coffee. Afternoon or not, I wasn't starting my day without it.

Sunlight was peeking around the edges of the dark plantation blinds in the front room, begging entrance into the house for a chance chase away the shadows that clung to the corners. The blinds been the first upgrade I made after I moved in. The lacy curtains had given the house a certain ambiance, to be sure, but they were way too old-fashioned and see-through for my taste. Plus, the wooden slats did wonders for keeping the heat out, which at times bordered on oppressive during the hotter summer months. One of the previous tenants had installed a central air conditioning system, but the old house had been built with grandeur in mind, not efficiency. As such, a lot of the cooler air (and heat in the winter) was lost to the high ceilings and drafty windowsills and door frames.

I hooked a left at the bottom of the stairs and crossed the front room and into the disaster that was my kitchen. Desperate for something to occupy my time now that I was alone and no longer going to school, I had decided to completely restore the kitchen. One of the reasons I had settled on this house was because of its unlimited potential for home improvement—a hobby I had shared with my dad growing up. It seemed that each owner or tenant had decided to add their own little touches here and there throughout the years, and the result now was a hodge-podge of design styles that really didn't go with each other or the overall historical theme of the house.

The 1980s faux wood Formica countertops were the first to go. My grand plan was to install a countertop and backsplash made out of ceramic tiles. It was cheaper than granite by a long shot, and if done right, would fit in more with the rest of antique features. However, laying each tile down individually was a ton of work, not to mention slow going, and right now the project was only about a third of the way complete. As a result, everything that normally resided on the counters had been relocated to the kitchen table, including the coffee maker, while the boxes of tiles, finishing tools, and buckets of grout strewn about the floor rendered the room pretty much unusable. I'd lived off of takeout and microwave TV dinners for the past month or so.

Picking my way carefully through the mess, I grabbed the coffee decanter and started filling it with water. Once I had measured the grounds and set the pot to brew, I wandered back into the front room and threw my suitcase on the couch so that I could unload it.

Not for the first time, I wondered what the house had been like when it was new. How many parties and social gatherings had the front room, called a parlor in those days, witnessed? How many excited children had hurtled themselves down the large mahogany balustrade, complete with artfully twisted fir boughs decorated with huge red bows, on Christmas morning? How many elegant dinner parties had taken place in the formal dining room that sat off the kitchen? My mother would probably roll over in her grave if she knew what I was currently doing with it. Mom always had a flair for the dramatic, and a formal dining room was right at the top of her list of things she always wanted but never had. She would be so disappointed in me if she were here to see that I was using half of it as a home office and the other half to store boxes of random things I hadn't yet found places for.

It had been about in year into my marriage with Ben when I received the fateful phone call that both my parents had been killed in a car accident. A semi-truck had jackknifed on the freeway, and their car had been hit by the trailer as it swung around, wedging it underneath. I missed them terribly, especially now. I could have used their guidance as I made my way through this new chapter in my life. At any rate, I hoped they were looking down on me and that they were proud of what they saw.

Armed with the much-needed jolt of caffeine I finished unpacking, started a load of laundry, and attempted to clean up a little around the rest of the house. The bigger tasks could wait for day when I wasn't fighting off the effects of jetlag, but it felt good to clear away some of the clutter.

A few hours later I collapsed on the couch, exhausted yet satisfied with all I had managed to accomplish. Tucking my feet underneath me, I reached over the armrest and fished my phone out of my purse. I hadn't turned it on since we left for Europe—there hadn't really been a reason to. Maddie and Rochelle were the only ones who called me on a regular basis, my work knew that I was on vacation and wasn't accepting phone calls so as not to accrue the outrageous international roaming charges, and everyone else could wait until I got back. So naturally, I was surprised to find that I had four voice mail messages waiting for me.

I dialed my mailbox and turned on the speaker to listen to the first message.

" _Hey, it's Ben. Call me."_

Ben? What did he want? I erased it and moved to the next message. His voice filtered through my phone again.

" _Chris, are you there? Give me a call."_

I frowned. It had been a while since the two of us had talked. It was odd that he would call once, let alone twice. I played the third message. Ben came on again, and this time he was unmistakably irritated.

" _Real mature, Christine. Ha-ha. Just answer the damn phone. It's urgent."_

Urgent? My heart sped up a little. What could he want so badly that would prompt him to call over and over again?

" _Okay, look. I'm sorry for what I said in my last message. I'm really starting to worry about you, Chris. Are you alright? Please call me back."_

I stared down at the phone, my mouth hanging open incredulously. He was worried about me? He was worried about me and had tried several times to talk to me. What could that mean? There was a small flutter in my stomach as I contemplated all the possibilities. Navigating to my contact list, I found his number and hit send.

The phone rang several times. I had begun to think that maybe he was purposely ignoring my calls as some form of immature payback when he finally answered.

"Hi," I said weakly.

"Jesus, Chris. It's about goddamn time. What took you so long to get back with me?"

I tried to keep my voice light and neutral despite the harshness of his tone. "Sorry, my phone's been off. I just got back into town last night."

"Just got back?" Ben echoed. "Where have you been?"

"Europe. I've been gone for the past two weeks. So, what's up?"

The line was silent for a few excruciating moments. Then, "Europe? You went to Europe? And you didn't think that—oh, I don't know—that maybe you should have said something to me about it?"

Anger surged through my veins. "I don't have to tell you anything!" I snapped. "You lost the right to know what's going on in my life when you made the decision to step outside of our marriage."

He sighed. "I don't want to fight."

"Of course. You're always quick to start the argument and then play the victim when things get too heated."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

I blinked. He was sorry? Ben _never_ apologized about anything.

"Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot," he went on. "Are you going to be home later?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I was wondering if I could swing by. I need to ask you something."

First he was worried about me. Then he willingly apologized. Now he wanted to ask me something in person. Blood began thumping loudly in my ears. Did he and Carly break up? Was he going to ask me if I wanted to reconcile? Was _that_ why he had called and left multiple messages?

I swallowed over the lump of anticipation that was suddenly lodged in the base of my throat and replied, "Sure. What time?"

"In about an hour."

"Okay."

"Yeah?" Heaven help me, he sounded hopeful. "Okay, see you then. Bye, Chris."

I hung up the phone and covered my mouth with my hand. What if he did want to get back together? Did I? The giddiness in my chest told me the answer to that question. An hour. He'd be here in an hour. Oh, crap. I needed to change. I couldn't let him see me in sweat pants and a dirty t-shirt, with my hair all crazy. If I hurried, that would give me enough time to shower and make myself look presentable.

Fifty-five minutes later I was back downstairs, pacing in front of the door with my third glass of wine in my hand, hoping like hell that the amount of alcohol I'd just slammed would help calm me down. I had chosen a pair of light blue denim skinny jeans, brown peep-toe booties with a chunky heel, and an olive-green tunic. My hair, now thoroughly washed and dried, was done in my characteristic beach wave style. To finish the ensemble off, I wore a pair of gold dangly earrings and matching bracelet that I had purchased during my trip.

The doorbell rang. I took a big gulp of the wine for courage and opened the door.

Ben stood outside on the porch, the light from the fading sun glinting off the coppery lowlights in his chestnut brown hair. God, he looked good. Even now, the man still had the ability to make me weak in the knees.

"Hey," he said, flashing me an equally knee-shaking smile full of straight, white teeth.

"Hey." Motioning with my wine glass, I said, "Come on in."

He stepped through the door and gazed around the room before centering his dark brown eyes on me. "You look good, Chris."

"Thanks." Inwardly I gave myself a high-five. "You don't look half bad yourself."

That was the understatement of the century. He was wearing the jeans I bought him for his birthday last year, the exact same ones I had willingly overpaid for strictly because I liked the way they made his ass look. The shirt was new, though. He had on a white, red, and black flannel, which was open in the front to reveal a tight plain black t-shirt underneath that hugged his torso like a second skin. Offhandedly, I remembered what it felt like to run my hands along his chiseled chest….

Clearing my throat, I gestured toward the couch. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Nah. This won't take long."

"Oh?" I tightened my grip on the wine glass and prayed that he couldn't see how badly my hand was shaking. Suddenly it felt like a kaleidoscope of butterflies had been turned loose inside my abdomen. "What…uh…what did you want to ask me that you couldn't ask over the phone?"

Ben pushed a hand through his hair and shifted his weight nervously.

"Do you remember my grandma's opal necklace?"

A cold feeling of dread slid down into the pit of my stomach, killing off some of the butterflies.

"Yeah…why?"

"Well, Carly's birthday is tomorrow and I wanted to give it to her as a present, but I think it got mixed up with some of your things by accident."

"Oh."

"I was wondering if you could go check."

The last of the butterflies died, their beautiful wings crushed underneath the heavy rock of disappointment.

"Um, sure. Hang on a sec."

I placed the wine glass down on the end table and then hurried upstairs before he could see the shimmer of tears in my eyes. When I got to my bedroom I let out a deep breath and swiped at my eyes.

"Don't you cry," I scolded myself. "Don't you _dare_ let him see you cry!"

"Chris?" Ben hollered from the landing. "Did you say something? Is everything okay up there?"

"Everything's fine," I called back. "Be there in a minute."

Wiping a rebellious teardrop from my cheek, I walked over to the jewelry box on my dresser and rummaged through its contents. Sure enough, I found the opal necklace toward the bottom of the pile. Plucking it out, I turned and went back downstairs.

"Here," I said, holding it out to him.

He took it from me gingerly. "You're upset," he said flatly.

"I'm okay."

His dark eyes narrowed. "No, you always chew on your bottom lip when something's got you upset."

"I'm fine, really." My tone was terse, making it clear that I didn't want to talk about it. "Is that all you came for?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Well, I'm really jetlagged, so if you don't mind…." I angled myself toward the front door.

"I need to be going anyway. I'm meeting Carly for dinner." He stepped forward and planted a quick kiss on my cheek. "Thanks for finding this. I owe you one."

And with that he was out the door and bounding down the steps to his car. I brought my hand up to touch the spot he had kissed and watched him drive away. As soon as he was out of sight I shut the door, slid to the ground, and dissolved into tears.

Why had I ever allowed myself to get my hopes up? Ben wasn't going to leave Carly. He wasn't coming back and I had to accept that.

But that didn't make my heart hurt any less.

"What kind of a person does that?" I wailed. "He could've asked me about that over the phone. I would have met him somewhere to drop it off, or mailed the damn thing to him. Oh, but then _Carly_ wouldn't get it in time for her stupid birthday, and we _can't_ have that! Asshole. If you ask me," I said to no one in particular—because the fact of the matter was that I was, and would continue to be, painfully alone, "I think he did it on purpose. I think he likes seeing me this depressed."

My voice cracked as I was overcome by another round of sobbing.

I considered calling Maddie or Rochelle and venting my frustration and heartache to one of them, but they had just gotten home as well, and the last thing they needed was to listen to me cry about Ben. It was just as well, I thought sullenly. At least I would be spared their judgment for entertaining the notion of getting back together with that moron.

I don't know how long I sat there on the floor like that, but after a while and a good deal of effort on my part, I was finally able to stand up. The only thing I wanted to do now was crawl into bed.

The room suddenly pitched to one side and I staggered forward, knocking my purse off the end table as I attempted to catch myself. It crashed to the ground, spilling its contents all over the floor.

"Great."

Maybe two and a half glasses of wine, jetlag, and three-inch heels weren't the best combination.

I knelt down and began angrily stuffing the items back into the bag. When I picked up my wallet I spotted the gold ring I found in the cellars of the opera house sitting on the floor beneath it. _Shit!_ I was supposed to turn that into the lost and found! How could I have forgotten to do that?

For some reason, the sight of it made me start crying all over again. Scooping up the ring, I wobbled to my feet, stumbled the few paces to the couch, and flopped down to the cushions. I held the ring up, twisting it in my fingers so that the smooth band would catch the in the light. Such an unfeeling piece of metal, and yet it symbolized everything. Hope, love, commitment…a promise to cherish each other forever.

Driven by an unexplainable impulse, I slid the gold band onto the ring finger of my left hand. As I did, a pocket of cold air whooshed past me, the sheer force of it causing goosebumps to appear on my forearms despite the lingering heat of the warm summer night and the flush that the alcohol had brought to my skin. I shook off the chill and then held my hand out in front of me to admire how it looked. Would a wedding ring ever again grace my finger? Or was I doomed to be alone and miserable forever?

I let out a despondent sigh. At the very least, I could mail the ring back to Paris and maybe have a chance of returning it to its rightful owner. I went to remove it, but it wouldn't budge.

That's funny. It wasn't that snug when I put it on. Why wasn't it coming off now? I yanked on it a few more times, to no avail.

"Fantastic," I muttered.

Clutching one of the throw pillows on the couch to my chest, I curled up, squeezed my eyes shut, and yearned for the night to be over.

XXX

 _"Christine..."_

I bolted awake.

My heart was pounding wildly against my ribcage as I scrambled into a sitting position and tried to orient myself to my surroundings.

Night had fallen, bathing the front room and the rest of the house in complete darkness. Through the open blinds, the light from thousands of winking stars created eerie shadows that crawled along the floor.

Placing a shaky palm against my heaving chest, I tried to catch my breath and figure out what had startled me.

My name. I could have sworn someone was calling my name, stretching out its syllables into one long, forlorn whisper.

Obviously, it had just been a dream, but the memory of its haunting intonation left me completely unsettled. Suppressing a shiver, I gathered up my phone and hurried upstairs to bed.

* * *

 **A/N:** You've gotten a glimpse of Christine's background and personality, and she's every bit as opinionated, strong-willed, and foul-mouthed as you would expect a modern woman to be. And the whisper! Did it really happen, or was it just her imagination or a side effect of the alcohol and her pining for Ben? I sense that a confrontation between the Opera Ghost and Christine is imminent.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone so far who has read, reviewed, favorited, and followed this story! Your words and actions have been very encouraging, and I'm so excited to give you this next installment.

In this chapter we get a little more of a glimpse into Christine's life. But first, Erik!

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

I had come to the conclusion long ago that if God did indeed exist, then He must have a sadistic sense of humor. My continued existence was sufficient proof of that. It was simply not enough for Him that I had lived my entire life with the curse He bestowed upon me, made to suffer because He, in a moment of what I could only determine as morbid curiosity, had created a face so hideous that no man or woman could look upon it.

I should not have been surprised. After all, why, if I had not been allowed the compassion, forgiveness, and dignity accorded to everyone else in life, should I then expect any sort of reprieve in death? No, God was a cold, unfeeling charlatan, and He wasn't finished punishing His most vile and repulsive creation just yet. Rather than grant me peace after a lifetime of torment, He chose to deny me absolution in the end and instead, as retribution for all the despicable crimes I had committed against my fellow man, condemned me to an eternity of the very hell I had wanted so hard to escape from.

I wasn't a fool. I knew that I had no hope of entering heaven, but the bitter irony of being forced to wander aimlessly through the very halls of the building I had once willingly haunted as my chosen profession wasn't lost on me. In the end, one final act of redemption, it seemed, was not enough to save me from eternal damnation.

Being indefinitely confined to the opera house was one thing. I could have learned to deal with that sentence if it weren't for all the memories! Another agonizing part of God's punishment; being blessed with perfect recollection of what had occurred before I died.

 _Christine_.

If I listened and looked closely I could still picture her as she wandered through my house. Every room, every hallway, every shadowed corner still echoed with the remnants of our quiet conversations. Her shy smile greeted me every time I closed my eyes. One glance at the abandoned pipe organ lining the far wall of the music room was enough to bring back the sound of her heavenly voice, her crystal-clear soprano intimately entwined with mine as we both sang about the love we never dared to voice without the guise of music as its background.

In the beginning my feelings of anger, grief, and despair were paralyzing. I was trapped in a twisted form of purgatory, with no outlet in which to vent my frustrations. Music, my one solace in life, was now denied to me. One needed a body in order to play, and that was something I no longer had. I could only stare longingly at the organ, knowing that my fingertips would never again grace its ivory keys. And while I could still listen to the orchestra and the operas being performed above, it was little consolation. So, I did the only thing I could do. I exacted my revenge upon the hapless and unsuspecting opera house staff. But even that, after time, lost its appeal.

Slowly, as things usually do with the unfailing passage of time, the opera house began to change. Renovations, the addition of electricity and installation of modern accoutrements…I witnessed them all from the sidelines, strangely indifferent to the transformations going on around me. Even when my beloved opera was moved to the Bastille, I couldn't quite manage to conjure up the energy to really care.

Eventually I settled into a sort of begrudging existence. That was, until the damnable tours started. Suddenly, seemingly unending hordes of ignorant, careless people were stomping and shoving their way through my cellars, callously invading my privacy as though they had every right to do so. They clamored on the edge of the lake, waiting with anxious anticipation and barely contained glee in the hopes of catching a glimpse of a shadow here, or a whisper there. Meddlesome creatures, the lot of them! Didn't they know better than to disturb a languishing ghost?

However, even all that was tolerable compared to this new level of living hell. This, I fumed as I gazed around at the unfamiliar walls that surrounded me…this was the final nail in the proverbial coffin. Was this all a part of God's grand plans of punishment? Had I not been tortured enough?

One moment I was sitting in my home, and in the next instant I found myself standing in the middle of a strange parlor. The structural style of the building suggested the house was older; the wooden panels and crown moulding on the walls spoke of times long since passed. But the furnishings were dreadfully modern, the minimalistic straight lines and earth tones painfully boring and uninspiring.

Incensed though I was at this new turn of events, my feelings of anger and annoyance were overridden by an intense curiosity as to how exactly I had come to be here. In all the years since my death, I had never once been able to set foot outside the opera house.

" _Christine..."_

Her name slipped past my lips before I could think to stifle it. How many times had I ached to go to her, to check on her and ensure—and perhaps assuage my guilty conscience—that she was content and happy with the life she chose, only to be trapped by the invisible walls of my prison?

A single gasp of fright was all the warning I received before a startled shadow shot up from the sofa in alarm. I shrank back instinctively and watched as the shadow materialized into the figure of a woman. Her eyes travelled wildly around the room, as though searching for something. Or someone.

Had she…?

No. I dismissed the idea with a firm shake of my head. There was no way she could have heard me. I was dead. Aside from the few glimpses and tricks I had allowed people to see, I hadn't spoken with a living person since…no, it wasn't possible. Still, the thought intrigued me, and as I crept closer to investigate, she moved and the light from the moon through the open windows washed over, bathing her in its muted glow and illuminated her soft features.

I recoiled, a shudder coursing through my body as though I had just been struck by lightning. I recognized her!

Suddenly, it all came rushing back. The cellars. The tour. Her. She was the one who had discovered my ring, hidden away beneath years of sludge and lake sediment. I had been powerless to stop her when she had plucked it from its resting place on the lakeshore and could only watch helplessly as she scurried upstairs to catch up with the rest of the tour group.

However, that still didn't explain what I was doing here. My answer came moments later when the woman leaned back, apparently in an attempt to calm her nerves, and when she placed a hand to her chest to steady her breathing, I caught sight of my ring on her slender finger.

Rage clouded my vision, darkening the edges as the room began to narrow to a pinpoint. _How dare she?_ That was Christine's ring! The very same one she had returned to me when I let her go with her Vicomte. And this…this _thief_ was wearing it as if she owned it.

I wouldn't stand for it! That ring was belonged to me, and I intended to get it back! She _would_ give it back! I was adept at playing a ghost. I'd done it before. I could easily reprise the role if necessary. One way or another, I would reclaim what was mine!

XXX

I woke up the next morning hungover and cranky from a night of restless sleep. I had tossed and turned for what felt like hours before finally passing out. My alarm continued to shrill from the nightstand. With a tremendous amount of effort, I rolled over and slammed my hand against the off button. As I lay there in the ensuing silence, two thoughts crossed my mind: One, why the hell had I drank so much? And two, why hadn't I left myself more of a buffer to recover from my vacation before going back to work?

Groaning, I got up and trudged to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Jesus, I looked awful. Thanks to my little breakdown last night, I had slept with my makeup on and now smudges of lipstick competed for dominance with the streaks of mascara running down my cheeks. My hair, at least, was still somewhat passable. I finished washing my face and then pinned the sides of my hair back with a few sparkly barrettes. That was all I had energy for. My head was pounding. I dabbed some concealer under my eyes, applied a lighter shade of pink lip gloss, and went to change into my scrubs.

I was extremely thankful that Dr. Stevenson allowed his receptionists to wear scrubs; it took the guesswork out of deciding what to wear each day and made mornings like these (not that there were many of them—I couldn't remember the last time I had drank to the point of waking up with a hangover) so much more bearable.

Unfortunately, even with my somewhat sloppy and rushed morning routine, I was still running behind by the time I laced up my sneakers, leaving me no time to brew any coffee. Another wonderful side effect of drinking and passing out, I thought sullenly. Forgetting to set the automatic brew timer. With an aggravated sigh I grabbed my sunglasses, purse, and car keys off of the end table and headed out to my car.

Twenty-five minutes later I walked through the waiting room of Dr. Jacob Stevenson's office, a cup of cheap ass gas station coffee in my hand. It was burnt and tasted as though the clerks had let it sit overnight and then simply reheated it this morning, but it was hot and loaded with caffeine and that was all that mattered. I set the styrofoam cup on the desk, dropped my purse on the floor, and slumped into my chair and covered my eyes with the palms of my hands.

Alejandra, the other receptionist, looked up for her calendar.

" _Mierda_!" she exclaimed softly, her brown eyes wide with surprise. "You look like hell, Chris."

"Thanks," I muttered. "I feel like it, too."

"What happened?"

I resisted the urge to sigh. I didn't want to think about Ben and how easily I had misconstrued his intentions. "I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say that I got overly familiar with a bottle of wine last night."

"Say no more," she said. She pulled open her drawer and slid a packet of Tylenol across the surface of the desk.

I took it, grateful for her quiet acceptance and understanding.

"What's our morning look like so far," I asked after I had washed down the pills with a big swig of coffee.

Alejandra swiveled back around in her chair and pulled up the appointment calendar. Her acrylic nails clacking against the keyboard as she typed. The two of us had worked out a great system. One of us would handle the phone appointments in the morning and the other would work with the patients coming into the office. Then after lunch we'd switch. Today I was on the phones first.

"Kind of scattered," she replied. "He's booked through the morning, but then it tapers off in the afternoon. Oh, and Michelle Chambers left a voicemail this morning cancelling her appointment at two o'clock. I've already taken her off today's schedule, but we still need to bill her for the forty-dollar cancellation fee."

"I'm on it." Sifting through the folders of the patients lined up for the day, I found her file and opened it up, organizing the contents inside as I waited for my computer to boot up.

The phone rang.

"And so it begins," Alejandra said.

I laughed and picked it up. "Dr. Stevenson's office."

The morning flew by, as Monday mornings typically did. The phones were always particularly busy on Mondays, probably because everyone decided over the weekend that they needed to make an appointment and then called first thing to schedule one. Usually by the middle of the week the phone calls died down, but the traffic inside the office increased on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Overall, we normally stayed consistently busy throughout the week, which was nice because it made the time fly by.

About midway through the morning, when we had a lull in patients both on the phone and in the office, Alejandra pushed away from the desk and stood up.

"Ugh, I've been sitting too long," she groaned, raising her arms above her head and elongating her slender body in a slow, languid stretch.

"You can take a break if you need to," I told her. "I've got this."

She ran her hands through her dark brown hair and exhaled deeply.

"Thanks," she said gratefully. "I'll be back in about ten."

I watched her leave, and then got up to straighten up the waiting area. I was stacking the magazines when the side door leading to Dr. Stevenson's office opened a few minutes later, and a woman and teenage boy walked out. Dr Stevenson trailed behind them.

"Thank you for coming, Mrs. Adams," he said. "Please don't hesitate to call me if there are any more issues."

The teenager scowled. Mrs. Adams shot him a look of warning and then nodded to the doctor before ushering to boy out of the office.

Dr. Stevenson turned and plastered me with the kind of warm smile that made his blue eyes light up. But after one look at me that smile faded into a look of concern.

"Christine?" He always called me by my full name. "Are you doing okay?"

The intensity of his gaze made me uncomfortable. I finished with the magazines and walked back to the reception desk, downplaying my emotional state as I went.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just had a rough night. That, and the jet lag. So, you know…."

He followed me to the desk, where he hiked his leg and sat half on, half off the counter. The light from the recessed lighting above made his blonde hair shine like spun gold.

"This looks like more than just jet lag. You look troubled. Upset. It wouldn't have anything to do with that ring on your finger, would it?"

I chewed on my bottom lip and glanced down. Damn. He certainly didn't miss a thing.

"What, this?" I laughed nervously, holding up my hand so that my palm was facing me. "I'm not back with Ben, if that's what you think. No, this…," I paused, trying to come up with an excuse that seemed plausible. "Well, it's a funny story, really. You see, I was going through some of my mom's old things, you know, because I still really haven't unpacked since I moved. Anyway, I found this ring in one of the boxes. I think it used to belong to my grandma. So, like an idiot, I try it on and the next thing I know it's stuck on my finger."

"It's stuck?" Dr. Stevenson frowned. "Is it cutting off your circulation?"

"No," I hastily replied. "It isn't tight enough that it hurts."

That much was true. As far as I could tell, there was nothing obvious that was preventing me from taking the ring off. It simply wouldn't move past my knuckle.

"Christine." He reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder, and as he did the fresh Irish spring scent of his aftershave washed over me. "I know things have been rough since your divorce. I've watched you go from a bright, cheerful woman to quiet and withdrawn, and it pains me to see it."

"Dr. Stevenson—"

"Jake. Please, call me Jake. I just want you to know that I'm here if you ever feel like you need to talk about things. You've been under a lot of stress and I think it would do you some good."

"Thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I'm good. Really. Just a bad night and lack of sleep."

I could think of at least half a dozen people, my two friends included, who would love to have Dr. Stevenson fawning attention all over them. Who wouldn't? He was young—probably around mid-thirties, extremely good looking, and had already established a successful practice. But to me it just felt weird. Not only was he my boss, but he was also a psychologist, and since he hadn't specified whether or not he'd be talking to me as a patient, subordinate, or a friend, I had to assume that he meant clinically. And even if that wasn't his intention, in the back of my mind I'd always feel like he was silently diagnosing me.

He smiled and stood as Alejandra walked back in. "Okay. Well, I've gotta get back to work. But you'll know where I'll be if you need me."

XXX

I called Maddie the minute I got in my car after work and headed home.

"Maybe he's actually concerned about you," she said.

"You don't think that's a little weird? Like maybe he's crossing the line between being professional and being too personal?"

"I don't know. Kinda? But, is it so bad to have a hunky doctor worried about you?"

I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder and shifted into fourth. "Ordinarily, no. But when that hunky doctor happens to be your boss?"

"Hmm," she hummed. "I guess I can see your point. Still, I think you should keep an open mind."

"An open mind about what?"

Maddie let out a small sigh. "It's almost been a year, Chris. You need to get back out into the dating pool."

I scoffed.

"Seriously!" she laughed. "You need to get away from that house. Go out and have fun once in a while."

"I go out," I pouted. "And what do you mean 'get out?' We just got back from Europe!"

"I meant with guys! And if Doctor Hunky has eyes for you, well, all I'm saying is give him a chance. See where it goes."

"This is me changing the subject." I signaled and steered my car toward the freeway off-ramp. "So, on another, completely unrelated note, do you know how to get a stuck ring off your finger?"

"Uh-oh. What did you do?"

"Nothing! Okay. I found an old ring, tried it on, and now it won't come off."

The phone was silent.

"Maddie?"

"All right," she replied. "I just Googled it. It says to try dish soap, any type of cooking oil, and glass cleaner."

"Glass cleaner?"

"Hey, I'm just reading you what it says. If nothing else, we can always cut it off."

"Let me try those other methods before we do anything too drastic," I said. I hesitated about cutting it off. I just kept thinking that someone back in Paris was having a meltdown because they lost it. I'd be willing to try anything to get it off and back to them in one piece.

"Okay. Well, gotta go. It's Pilates night. You should join me sometime."

"I'll think about it," I hedged.

Maddie chuckled. "Have a good night, Chris."

"You too."

Five minutes later I turned into my neighborhood. The sun was still relatively high in the sky, although it had cooled off somewhat. The street was bustling with activity. Kids were playing in the sprinklers or darting back and forth between houses. A few people were mowing their lawns, and one person washed their car in the driveway. The sounds of summer floated all around me.

I got out of the car and inhaled the smell of cut grass and barbeque smoke. For the first time since I woke up I felt lighter, happier. It was invigorating. My headache had finally subsided, and the sudden burst of energy made me want to get some work done in the kitchen.

But first, I needed to get this damn ring off my finger.

However, my feelings of euphoria all but evaporated after I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The house was cold inside—much cooler than it should have been given the sweltering heat outside. I had had the central air running all summer and never had it managed to push out temperatures like this before. The air felt heavy and charged and almost… _suffocating_. In all the months I'd lived here I had never felt so unwelcome as I did in that moment.

Shaking my arms and shoulders in an attempt to cast off the uncomfortable feeling, I put my things on the end table and went into the kitchen to see what kind of supplies I had on hand.

I was in luck; I had all three of the items Maddie suggested in stock. The vegetable oil seemed the most logical place to start. If it didn't work I could always wash it off with dish soap and kill two birds with one stone. I placed a pea-sized drop of oil on my finger and slathered it around and under the ring. As it warmed to my skin it became even slicker.

I grimaced. "Gross."

Of course, the oil didn't stay in one place. It quickly spread until it covered my middle and pinky fingers as well. Deciding my hand was saturated enough I gripped the band with my other hand and pulled. The ring hit the knuckle and stopped.

"What the hell?" I grunted.

I twisted the ring around my finger and pulled harder, thinking that maybe I could walk it off. Although it spun around freely, it still wouldn't move beyond the knuckle. Slipping the tips of my fingers underneath the band, I pulled with all my might.

"Gah!"

I was near tears by the time I finally gave up. My poor ring finger was red and angry looking. Using my elbow, I turned on the faucet and ran my hands under the hot water. Then I grabbed the dish soap and dumped a copious amount into my hands and lathered them together, using the fingers of my right hand to rub the fingers on my left. In the past when I wore my wedding ring, I always had to be very careful when I washed my hands like this, because the motion would cause the ring to slip right off. But just like with the oil, the ring still refused to move.

Something crashed upstairs and I jumped, letting out a small yelp that echoed around my messy kitchen. Yanking the dish towel from the oven handle, I quickly dried my hands and raced out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Everything looked normal from the landing. I stood there for a few moments, straining my ears and listening for any signs of where the disturbance had come from. I didn't hear anything. But that didn't stop my heart from hammering in my chest. Cautiously, I inched my way into the bedroom and surveyed the room.

Maybe I'd imagined it. Or maybe the sound had really come from one of the neighbors outside. That seemed more likely. I was just about to write off the incident as just that when my eyes fell upon my jewelry box. It was lying upside on the ground next to the dresser. The ornate mahogany and mother of pearl lid had separated from the bottom in the fall, and all the jewelry was now scattered on the floor around it.

My heart gave a painful lurch as I knelt down and picked up the lid and turned it over in my hand. Sure enough, the wood was splintered around the hinges. I could always rest the lid back on top, but it would never function the way it was intended to again.

What the hell had caused it to fall off the dresser in the first place?

The sun went behind a cloud and the room darkened. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up, and I had the strangest feeling of being watched. I scooped up my jewelry and dumped it back into the box, then stood and hurriedly placed it back on the dresser.

What if there was an intruder in the house?

 _Oh, Christine!_ I thought. _How could you be so stupid to assume that the noise was an accident?_

A black shadow moved out of the corner of my eye. I squealed and lunged for the lamp on my nightstand. I hoisted it above my head, ready to use it as a weapon to defend myself if I needed to.

"Wh-Who's there?" I called out. "I know you're there. Don't come any closer."

Seconds later the sun came back out, chasing away the lingering shadows and bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. Particles of dust caught the light and they hovered in the air and sparkled like diamonds.

I let out the breath I'd been holding and set the lamp back down on the nightstand. Then I checked the closet and the bathroom, even stopping to swipe the shower curtain aside to make sure that no one was hiding behind it.

Once I was done systematically checking the upstairs, I went back down to the first level and searched all those rooms as well. Just as it had upstairs, my search turned up nothing.

"You're imagining things," I whispered to myself. "You're tired and stressed. It's nothing."

I needed to get my mind off things. Work would help. So would food. With that thought, I made my way back to the kitchen. I took a TV dinner out of the freezer and put it in the microwave. I'd eat and then try to get a little farther on the kitchen counter and put that weird little occurrence far behind me.

* * *

 **So, Erik's making his displeasure known. Christine doesn't know it yet, but there's much more where that came from. As always, please tell me what you think!**

 **Much love!**

 **~J**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

I don't know whether it was because I was still freaked out by the noise earlier in the afternoon, or if it was due to lingering memories of the previous night, but sleep was hard to come by that night. I had assumed, perhaps a bit naively, that I'd be out as soon as my head hit the pillow, and while that was true in the beginning, it didn't last very long.

The house itself seemed particularly active tonight. I'd long since grown accustomed to the soft groaning and creaking of it settling on its foundation, but tonight the sounds were louder, and there was decidedly more thumping and bumping than I was used to. At one point I got up and parted the blinds, looking out into the backyard. The leaves on the trees and shrubs were still; not even a breeze rustled through them. I frowned. Obviously I couldn't blame it on the wind.

I fell into a fitful sleep after that, once again plagued with strange dreams of people moaning. Teetering on the edge between sleep and wakefulness, I heard a loud crashand sat straight up in bed.

That sounded real. Most of the time I could differentiate between what was real and what I had dreamed, but that noise sounded like it came from downstairs, and it instantly brought chills to my skin despite the warm night air.

I flew out of bed and was halfway down the stairs before I had even considered the source of the sound and the potential consequences associated with it. I stopped at the base of the stairs, my eyes riveted on the kitchen doorway.

I hadn't left a light on. I was sure of it. I had turned everything off right before I went to bed. Surely I would have noticed if I left the kitchen light on. Wouldn't I?

Sinking my teeth into my lower lip, I tiptoed through the front room and peeked around the door frame into the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was just a dream.

Just to put any lingering doubts to rest—because I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep unless I did—I did a lap around the kitchen to make sure that everything was all right. As I moved around the table, I caught sight of a pile of broken tile on the floor.

So the crash I heard was real. I must have set the tile too close to the edge and it slipped off. It didn't make a lot of sense how the tile would have moved in the first place, but I was more than ready to accept it as a logical explanation and be done with it anyway.

I'd clean up the mess tomorrow when I got home from work, I thought wearily. Turning on my heel, I flipped off the light and headed back to bed. But when I got to the front room I stopped, my feet frozen in place.

There was light coming from my bedroom. It glowed cheerily from the open doorway, illuminating the hallway and the staircase. Such a seemingly innocent, normal light, and yet the sight of it struck an unexplainable fear in my heart.

Now I knew for an absolute fact that I hadn't turned on the bedroom light. I was up and out of bed way too fast to even consider reaching over and switching on the lamp. A cold sweat beaded on my forehead and I swallowed, fighting off the sudden urge to panic. Deep down, my stomach twisted with that sickening gut feeling that whispered that something was very, very wrong.

"Calm down, Christine," I said out loud. "You're reading too much into this. You're stressed. Stress makes you forget things."

Just then, a cool breeze whispered past, brushing against my neck as gently as the air from a moth's wing, and following behind on the tails of its gossamer tendrils I could have sworn I heard my name.

" _Christine_."

"Jesus Christ!" I squealed.

The clamps on my carefully maintained self-control ruptured, and once the dam had broken, full-blown panic rushed over me. Scrambling as fast as I could into the front room, I switched on all the lamps, followed by every single light in the kitchen, the upstairs hallway, and in my bedroom.

I crawled into bed, pressed my back against the headboard, and pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs in a protective embrace. I was shaking from head to toe, and my heart was beating so fast that I thought it was going to burst out of my chest cavity and take off running down the stairs and out of the house without me.

Every now and then I would pick my head up and survey the room, looking for anything out of place, any kind of sign that I might not be alone. I don't know how long I sat like that, but eventually I realized that I was too wound up to go back to sleep and needed something to distract my frazzled mind.

Slowly uncurling my legs, I reached over to nightstand and picked up my e-reader and turned it on. I was almost finished with _The Phantom of the Opera_. The Persian and the Vicomte were currently trapped in the torture chamber, while beyond the wall the Phantom, Erik, threatened Christine with blowing the opera house sky high if she didn't agree to be his wife.

I tried to sympathize with the Phantom—really, I did. There were parts in the book that had me silently rooting for him, but then his temper would flare and he would make such unreasonable demands upon Christine that it was a wonder that she felt anything for him at all. By the end of the epilogue my feelings were completely mixed up. Part of me was amazed that she could even stand to kiss him after all he'd put her through, but another part of me was extremely saddened to see her leave him and go off with the Vicomte instead of staying with him. A sign of good writing, indeed, if I wasn't sure how to feel after reading it.

I finally drifted off sometime just before dawn. All too soon the buzzer to my alarm sounded, dragging me kicking and screaming into another work day. Groaning, I clambered out of bed and scrubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms. At least this time I had remembered to set the automatic timer on the coffee maker, and with the heavenly smell of brewing coffee acting as my guide, I begrudgingly left my room.

It wasn't until I reached the kitchen that I realized the whole house was dark. Not a single light was on. Had I dreamed the entire thing? It felt too real to be a dream. But then again, the episode with my jewelry box had left me pretty rattled. It would have been very easy for me to transfer that fear and anxiety into the dream world. And I'd been really emotional the past few days, anyway. Maybe what I needed was to get through the work week and then take the weekend off; no working on the house, no going out, just relaxing.

My spirits had already lifted somewhat by the time I grabbed my coffee mug and started filling it with coffee. Pivoting on my heel I turned to get the sugar off the kitchen table, and that's when my heart slid into my stomach. There was still tile all over the floor next to the dishwasher. Half a box from the looks of it. My fingers tightened reflexively around the mug.

So, it hadn't been a dream after all….

That meant….

That meant that someone—or _something_ —had turned off all the lights after I'd fallen asleep.

Jesus. _What the hell was going on?_

XXX

This was going to be too easy. A day and a half of small annoyances, and I already had her questioning her sanity. I hadn't even been trying that hard.

She had a penchant for talking to herself. Normally such a habit would grate on my nerves, but this time I actually found it quite useful. It had taken me a moment to mentally switch from French to English, but once I had, listening to her try to explain away all the strange occurrences gave me ample insight as to just how my antics were affecting her.

I had been overcome with fury when I discovered that she shared a name with my beloved Christine. This woman did not deserve such an appellation. No doubt it was yet another one of God's devices, a way to twist the knife and remind me both of my transgressions and what I had lost. But after the initial shock had dissipated, I was able to use the anger hearing those syllables stirred in me to my advantage. With one more thing on a growing list of reasons to dislike this woman, it became easier to channel my frustration into my work. Over the course of the next day or so I would slowly increase the intensity, until she had no choice but to comply with my demands.

XXX

If I had any lingering doubts that what I was experiencing was just a side effect of jetlag and a lack of good sleep, they were soon blown completely out of the water when I came home from work that evening.

Every single cupboard and drawer in the kitchen was wide open. Once I'd finished putting the kitchen back together, I walked out into the front room to discover that my purse—which I had dropped on the end table nearest to the door when I got home—had been relocated to the rocking chair on the far side of the room. The shower curtain had been plucked off the rail, and I found my hairbrush tossed in with my shoes in the closet.

As the sun went down the shadows inside grew longer, some seemingly moving of their own accord, without any corresponding cause coming from outside. By nightfall I was a shaking wreck, and I spent another sleepless night keeping watch with my back pressed against the headboard.

I woke up in a sitting position the next morning. My eyes felt like sandpaper. A quick glance in the bathroom mirror showed me they were bloodshot and angry looking. My complexion bordered on sickly, which only served to make the dark circles beginning to manifest under my eyes that much more obvious. Fatigue made my arms and legs feel heavy, as though I had spent the night running up and down the stairs. Dismissing my reflection with a tired moan, I lumbered back to the bed and fell back to the mattress. After another few moments of deliberation, I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and dialed the office.

"Dr. Stevenson's office," Alejandra announced after the second ring.

"Wow, you're there early," I said, stunned to be talking to her instead of the machine.

"Is that you, Chris? Where've you been? It's 9:30."

"It's what?" My eyes flew open and darted to the alarm clock. Sure enough, the green digital letters read 9:32 a.m. "Oh my god."

"Are you okay?"

"No." I paused to push a hand through my messy hair. "That's why I'm calling. I must've caught something on the flight home. I feel terrible." It wasn't a total lie. But then again, I wasn't sure how she'd react to _I've been up for two nights straight because I think I'm being terrorized by a ghost_. If I didn't already think I was going crazy, Dr. Stevenson certainly would. And then he would try to fix me, and that was the last thing I wanted.

 _Telling your psychologist boss that you're experiencing hallucinations. Yeah, right. Thanks, but I'll pass._

"I wondered. You haven't looked so well the past couple of days," Alejandra said. "Do you want me to tell Dr. Stevenson that you won't be in today?"

"Please."

"Okay. Get feeling better."

"Thanks," I replied.

Hanging up the phone, I pushed it back onto the nightstand and then turned and buried my face in my pillows.

I woke up a few hours later to a dark room. My first thought was that I had slept the whole day away and now it was nighttime again. But as my eyes adjusted I noticed that gray clouds streaked across the sky outside. The air through the open window was cooler, and the wind had picked up with the promise of an impending storm.

Flinging the covers back, I got out of bed, grabbed my phone, and headed downstairs to make coffee. While I waited for it to brew I searched my contact list for my landlord's number and hit 'send.'

"This is Kathy."

"Hey Kathy, it's Chris."

The line was silent.

"Christine Davies," I clarified.

"Oh! Hi, Christine. How are things going on your kitchen project?"

"Things are good. It's really coming along. But hey, I've got a question to ask you. It's kinda weird."

"Okay, shoot."

"Well…," here I hesitated. "Has anyone ever…um…mentioned seeing things…you know, around the house?"

Again, she was quiet. Then, "I'm not sure I follow…."

I bit my bottom lip. "Like, has anyone complained that the house is haunted?"

"Haunted?" she repeated. I imagined her shaking her head on the other side of the phone. "No. No one's ever said anything about that house being haunted."

"No one?" I said, not at all liking the desperate tone that had crept into my voice. "Nothing weird or out of the ordinary?"

"I'm sorry, no." There was a muffled sound, like she was moving the phone from one ear to other, and then she added, "But I do feel the need to remind you that you did sign a lease-option to buy, and to leave now would mean a breach of contract."

"I'm not leaving," I snapped. The combination of little sleep and feeling like an idiot was making me cross. I took a deep breath in an effort to calm down. "I was just curious. An old house like this, there's bound to be some history."

Kathy let out a brittle laugh. "No doubt."

"Okay, well, I'll talk to you later."

After disconnecting the call I took my coffee and went out to the front room. The absence of sun had swathed the room in shadows. The threat of a looming storm had forced people inside, and so the house was unnaturally quiet without the usual sounds of neighborhood life going on outside. From out of nowhere I thought I heard a low whisper, but I couldn't make out the words.

A chill worked its way up my spine, and the small hairs on the back of my neck rose with the feeling that someone was standing right behind me. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and turned around. No one was there. Of course, that did little to comfort me. If I were indeed being haunted by a ghost, it's not like I would be able to see them, anyway.

A particularly strong gust of wind rattled the windows in their casements, causing me to unleash an ungodly yelp that reverberated around the empty house.

This was getting ridiculous! I couldn't continue second-guessing myself, losing sleep, and living in fear of the unknown lurking in every dark corner. If there was suddenly a ghost haunting my house, I was going to find out why.

I checked the clock, and then unlocked my phone and sent a group text to Maddie and Rochelle.

 _C: Are you guys busy tonight?_

Maddie responded a few moments later.

 _M: Hot yoga. Why?_

 _C: There's been some weird stuff happening here lately. I think my house may be haunted._

There was a long lull in the conversation. Suddenly, I felt extremely foolish for even bringing it up. Maybe I should have just kept it to myself and figured it out on my own.

Finally, Maddie responded.

 _M: So, what are you going to do?_

Before I could answer, Rochelle's text message came through.

 _R: Sorry, ladies. We just contracted with a new artist and plans to reveal their exhibit has had me swamped. So, you think your house is haunted, Chris?_

Rochelle worked as an event coordinator at the Museum of Fine Arts. It had been her dream to work in the arts and she had landed the job right out of college. At least she was going places, I thought sourly. Hell, even Maddie's position as the payroll supervisor at a high-end clothing retailer sounded glamorous compared to my job. Especially since she got a discount that gave her the opportunity to buy really cute clothes.

Dropping my attention back to my phone, I typed out my reply.

 _C: I don't know. I was thinking of maybe having a séance or something. See if I can figure out why this is happening all of a sudden._

 _R: Ooh, a séance. Spooky. I'm in._

 _M: So, let me get this straight. You want me to give up a night of cleansing relaxation and staring at sweaty, good-looking guys to come over and help you communicate with the dead?_

 _C: Yes? I know. It sounds crazy, right?_

 _R: C'mon, Maddie! It'll be fun!_

 _C: Pleeeeeeaaaase?_

 _M: Ugh. Fine. What time?_

 _C: Does 6:30 work for everyone?_

 _M: Yes._

 _R: I'll be there._

 _C: Okay, see you in a bit._

Great. That would give me enough time to run out and grab the supplies I needed and still be able to spruce up the place a bit before they got there.

XXX

Two hours later I shuffled through the front door, my arms laden with everything we would need for tonight. There was one of those new age stores a few miles into town that sold items related to the occult and other metaphysical supplies. I spared no expense; I had purchased candles, incense, a pentagram, and a Ouija board. I wasn't entirely sure any of this stuff was going to work, but it was worth a try.

Since my kitchen table was actively functioning as my countertop, I went into the dining-room-slash-junk-room and pulled out an old folding card table that had once belonged to my parents. I dusted it off and then moved the coffee table and set it up right in the middle of the front room. Then I retrieved three chairs from the kitchen and put them around the table. Next, I positioned the Ouija board in the center and surrounded it with candles. For lack of a better option, I set the pentagram down next to where I would be sitting. I could figure out what to do with it once we got started. I was just lighting the incense I'd placed on the two end tables when the doorbell rang.

"Holy crap!" Rochelle exclaimed, shaking off her umbrella as she stepped through the door. Her short brown hair was plastered to her forehead. "It's really coming down out there! You sure picked a good night to do this."

The ominous clouds had finally given way to a violent thunderstorm. Heavy rain sliced down from the heavens, the droplets made thin and knife-like by the howling wind, flooding the streets and gutters with torrents of water. Every so often, lightning lit up the evening sky in hues of pinks and hot white, followed soon after by the low rolling sound of thunder.

The house was almost as dark inside as it normally would be at midnight. To amplify the effect, I had systematically gone around to each room and closed all the blinds. Now, the only light came from the flickering candles on the card table.

Rochelle set her purse down on the couch and took a seat at the table to the left of my chair. I remained standing by the door, opening it a crack so I could be ready to fling it open when Maddie ran from her car to the porch. It wasn't too much longer before I saw her car pull in.

"Where did this come from?" she asked breathlessly.

I shrugged and took her raincoat and hung it on a hook next to the door. "Beats me."

She finished straightening her collar and shook out her hair. Then her eyes centered on the card table. Rochelle waved.

"Wow, Chris. It looks kind of scary in here."

"Try living here," I quipped.

Maddie pegged me with a questioning look as she slowly settled into the seat on my right. "You didn't elaborate in your text. What's going on?"

I plopped down in my chair with a loud sigh and pushed my hand through my hair. "Strange things. The other day my jewelry box flew off my dresser and broke, the lights turn on and off by themselves, some of my stuff has been moved around. And it's just been the past few days."

"Hmm," Rochelle mused. "Maybe the original owners of the house don't like what you're doing to the place and now they're trying to tell you."

I started to protest and then stopped. _Could_ that be it? It would make sense why none of the previous tenants had seen or experienced anything like this. Then again. "Outdated Formica countertops that belong in the eighties? Please," I laughed. "I'm doing them a favor."

Rochelle snickered. Maddie just shook her head.

"Well, I suppose we should give this a shot. Do you know what you're doing?" Maddie asked.

"Not a clue," I revealed. "I guess we should hold hands or something."

"But if we hold hands, then how are we going to use the Ouija board?" Rochelle pointed out.

Gnawing on my bottom lip, I said, "Huh. Good point. Maybe we begin by holding hands and beckoning to the spirits, and then try to communicate with them by using the Ouija board."

Now it was Maddie's turn to snicker. "I guess. Go for it, Chris."

The three of us joined hands, making a triangle around the candlelit table. I didn't know if it was the fact that we were actually attempting this, or if it was just the anticipation of it all, but the air seemed to thicken around us.

I cleared my throat. "We are gathered here tonight—"

"Sounds like a wedding," Rochelle murmured.

"Shh!" I snapped, trying not to giggle myself. "You're breaking my concentration. We are attempting to communicate with any spirits that may be in this house. Tell us who you are. What do you want? Why are you haunting my house?"

We waited, each of us alternating between looking at each other and around the room. After a minute, I motioned to the Ouija board. Without saying anything, we let go and brought both our hands to the small plastic piece that was supposed to slide around the board and spell out the spirit's answers.

"Maybe you're overwhelming them with too many questions," Maddie said when it had yet to move. "Try asking one at a time."

"Okay. Is there someone else besides the three of us here?"

I held my breath, waiting for the answer, for the confirmation that I wasn't going crazy. But after about a minute of staring at the pointer, it still hadn't moved.

I tried again. "Who are you?"

Again, we waited. And again, the planchette remained motionless.

"Is that the ring you were telling me about?" Maddie asked out of the blue.

My eyes shifted to my left hand, where the gold band sparkled in the dancing candlelight. "Yeah."

Rochelle perked up. "What's this now?"

Sighing, I related the fabricated story I had told Maddie about finding my grandmother's ring and putting it on, only to get it stuck. I couldn't very well tell either of them that I had accidentally absconded with a ring that wasn't mine and had put it on my finger during a drunken pity party over Ben. They had both been with me during the lowest points of my divorce, and I doubted either of them were eager to revisit those days. Plus, they would be absolutely furious with me if they knew I had even entertained the thought of reconciling with him—however far-fetched that actually turned out to be.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Keep trying to get it off, I guess. I really don't want to cut—" The rest of my sentence froze on my tongue as a pocket of cold air swept over my left hand. "Do you guys feel that?"

Maddie shook her head, her long loose curls swaying with the motion. "Uh-uh. What?"

"You seriously don't feel that?" How could they not feel it? My hand felt like I had dunked it in ice water.

"No." She angled her head over to Rochelle. "Do you feel anything?"

"Nothing." Rochelle looked at me apologetically. "Sorry, Chris. I don't think this is working."

I sat back against the chair and crossed my arms over my chest with a disgusted groan. "I feel like I'm going crazy."

"Look," Maddie's tone was placating. "You've had a busy couple of weeks. Has anything upset you recently, stressed you out to the point where you've been losing sleep?"

My gaze fell to my hands, which were now folded in my lap, and I worried the inside of my lip as I debated whether or not to tell them about Ben's visit. Unfortunately, Maddie was perceptive and immediately picked up on my hesitation.

"Something did happen. What was it?"

I squeezed my eyes shut and blurted, "Ben called on Sunday and wanted to come over."

"Oh, Chris," Rochelle moaned, her voice dripping with disappointment. "You didn't."

"No!" I exclaimed. Hurt and indignation chased away the embarrassment on my face. "No, I wouldn't— He wanted some stupid necklace of his grandmother's so he could give it to Carly on her birthday," I sneered, altering my voice into a mocking tone at the end. Fucking asshole."

I couldn't quite tell, but I thought I heard both my friends sigh in relief.

"I bet that's all this is," Maddie said, patting my hand now that it was back on the tabletop. "He's gotten you all worked up again, which is being made worse by the fact that you're tired from the trip and then having to go straight back to work. You know how you get when you're stressed."

"I suppose."

In all reality what she was saying was mostly true. I did tend to get overwhelmed and forget things when I got stressed. But I couldn't also help the feeling that I was experiencing something otherworldly. It just felt too real. Could my mind really play tricks on me like that?

"Let's clean this up so you can go to bed early and get some decent sleep," she continued.

"Okay."

Pushing away from the table I moved around the front room and turned on the lights while Rochelle blew out the candles. Maddie gathered up the Ouija board and put it, the planchette, and the pentagram back in the box. After helping me fold down the card table and put it and the chairs back in their respective places, they said goodnight and left me standing alone in the doorway.

As soon as their taillights disappeared from view I slammed the door and whirled back into the front room. I was furious.

"That's just great!" I seethed. "You've been scaring the shit out of me for days, and now that I've finally admitted that there is something is going on and tried to communicate with you, you decide to shut up! What the hell?" The irritation I felt over failing to rouse whatever was tormenting me was making me reckless, but I didn't care. "I'm tired of these childish pranks! Either tell me what you want, or move the fuck on!"

My chest was heaving by the time my diatribe ended, but I felt good. It didn't matter that I had just directly challenged the ghost. Who knew what sort of evil things I had just called down upon myself? At that moment, as I stomped upstairs to take a shower, all I felt was the intense satisfaction that now he or she knew that I was done playing games.

XXX

 _Childish_?

She had the audacity to call _me_ childish? If only she knew who she was dealing with—that men had died by my hand for far less than the insults she now flung at me.

I had lingered at the edge of the living room, watching their absurd attempts to "contact" me. I had had no intention of revealing myself, especially with others present, but I had been truly surprised when she spun around and slammed the door behind her. A wry smile slowly crept over my disfigured features. At least now I had her attention.

She wanted me to drop the pretense and communicate with her. I could concede she had a point; these games were growing tiresome. The fact that she had directly acknowledged my presence instead of trying to dismiss it as something else told me that perhaps she was finally ready to listen to what I wanted.

The steady, scalding hot stream of water felt good on my weary muscles, the pulsating jets of the showerhead working to ease the tension in my neck and shoulders. As I stood under the water, I thought about everything that had happened. Considering the outcome of the séance—not to mention all the money I had wasted on it—I should have still been in a foul mood. But I wasn't. Popping off like that had lifted a huge weight from my chest, even if it had really accomplished nothing more than allowing me to vent. For the first time in days I felt like I could breathe.

I pulled a deep, soul-cleansing breath into my lungs and turned off the shower. Grabbing the towel I had thrown over the rail, I wrapped it around my body and pushed the curtain back. But as I stepped out of the tub and into the steam-filled area in front of the sink, my good mood evaporated as quickly as drops of water on the sidewalk on a hot summer day.

There, written as plain as day in the condensation on the bathroom mirror, was the answer that I had so heedlessly demanded.

 _Give it back._

* * *

 **A/N:** I think this has been my favorite chapter to write so far. I was honestly surprised that it turned out so long. Please let me know how you think I'm doing!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 _Give it back_.

Goosebumps pebbled my still-wet skin as I stared incredulously at the message scrawled across my bathroom mirror. Tiny drops of water beaded around the edges of the letters, and as they coursed down toward the sink it created jagged lines, making the words look even scarier.

Lightning chose that exact moment to slash across the sky, followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder so loud and close that the house shook on its foundation. Letting out a scream that ranked right up there with the best of the horror movie scream-queens I tore out of the bathroom.

Oh my god, there was a ghost in my house! I had asked for confirmation and now I had it. I wasn't going crazy. I wasn't just tired. Wasn't seeing things. There was a ghost. An actual, real-life ghost. And what was worse, was apparently, I had something that belonged to it.

But what?

"Give what back?" I tentatively asked the open air once I had collected myself enough to breathe again. "Was Rochelle right? Are you a previous owner who's mad because I've made changes to the house? I-I've tried to keep the original style in mind," I stammered. "What I'm doing now is better than it was, isn't it? Why haven't you haunted the people that did the all the remodeling before me? They're the ones that installed all the ugly—"

I stopped myself. Not only was I starting to whine, but I was trying to justify my actions to a ghost. And I didn't even know if that was really the reason for its sudden appearance. I shook my head. Thank God no one else was here to witness me conversing with thin air like some kind of an idiot.

The insidious tendrils of a headache were starting to creep across my forehead. I could feel the muscles at the base of my neck start to tighten back up, and a small, dull throb pounded behind my left eye.

I finished getting dressed, pulling on my pajamas with a fervency I'd never experienced before, suddenly self-conscious that someone else might be in the room watching me. Then I crawled into bed, yanked the covers up to my chin, and willed myself to go to sleep. Things would be better in the morning. They had to be.

I don't know whether it was due to sheer exhaustion, or if the ghost had decided to take pity on my recent sleep patterns, but I slept through the night without further incident. Nothing was out of place when I woke up the following morning, and I was able to complete my normal morning routine in peace. Part of me wondered whether or not I had imagined the whole thing.

My drive to work was equally uneventful. The rainstorm outside had calmed somewhat. The wind had died down just after midnight, and the penetrating rain tapered off to a steady drizzle sometime before dawn. Heavy black clouds still covered the sky, effectively blocking out the early morning sunlight and making the surroundings appear drab and dreary for the second day in a row. Occasionally, a flash of lightning would flicker in the distance, followed by a low growl of thunder, the sights and sounds grower more muted as the storm continued to move east.

As I drove out of the neighborhood I took in the damage the squall had left in its wake. Small trees limbs were scattered throughout everyone's yards, and leaves and other debris littered the grass, sidewalks, and streets. My yard was no exception; I definitely had my work cut out for me when I got home. I only hoped the rain stopped before then.

Despite my best attempts at keeping myself distracted during the day, my thoughts inevitably turned back to my experiences within the house. For the life of me, I couldn't think of anything that I had recently acquired that might have once belonged to someone who was now dead, and I couldn't come with any other examples of when a strange phenomenon might have been attributed to a ghost in the past. As far as I could tell, the manifestations had only started happening recently and I was at a complete loss as to what I had done to anger the ghost who now haunted my house.

"Are you okay?" Alejandra asked.

I blinked several times before guiltily swinging my gaze to my coworker. "Yeah."

"Still feeling a bit under the weather?"

"Something like that." I laughed, but it came out sounding shrill and forced. "Who knew that you'd need a vacation after your vacation, right?"

"Ain't that the truth," she chuckled before reaching up to grab the clipboard from a patient who had approached the counter while we were talking.

I was saved from further conversation by a steady stream of patients and phone calls the rest of the day. The time seemed to fly by, much to my chagrin, and as the clock inched its way closer to quitting time, my anxiety continued to rise at the thought of going home. What would I find when I got there?

XXX

Not once, in the hundred-some-odd years that I'd been dead, had I been able to interact with the living the way I could with this woman. There had been times, of course, that I had allowed people small glimpses of myself; a shadow here, the flip of my cloak there. But it took an enormous amount of energy to even create those manifestations, let alone to knock an object off a table, or, as in this instance, write a message on a mirror. At least this time, I mused darkly, I couldn't see my visage reflected back to me in the glass. I suppose death had some benefits, after all.

The house stood quiet and empty, its sole occupant long since departed for the day. I should have found solace in the silence, but instead I was oddly restless. The storm had picked up again, and the havoc it was wreaking outside mirrored my thoughts: scattered, disorganized, tempestuous.

As incensed as I was about my current situation, my curiosity was slowly overcoming my agitation. I needed to know more about this woman, and most importantly, why her wearing my ring had me suddenly and inexplicably trapped here with her.

XXX

Five o'clock arrived much sooner than I would have liked. Desperate for anything to keep me there a little bit longer, I stalled by straightening up the file folders on the desk, watering the plants, and alphabetizing all the magazines on the end tables.

A door opened and shut behind me. I had been so focused on what I was doing that the sound startled me, and I jumped, dropping a handful of magazines in the process. I wheeled around, my heart firmly lodged in my throat, and came face to face with Dr. Stevenson. My relief at the fact the noise had come from a normal human being was so palpable that I nearly burst into tears.

"Christine!" he exclaimed. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to frighten you. I thought I was the only one here and—wait. What are you still doing here?"

"I…." My mind went horribly and utterly blank. I needed to come up with some sort of excuse as to why I was here late, and quick. I couldn't let him know that I was terrified to go home. _Think, Christine, think!_ "I…um…I feel really bad about calling in sick yesterday, and…I thought I'd stay late tonight and try to catch up on some busy work."

His face softened. "That's very thoughtful of you," he said as he shifted his umbrella from one hand to the other, "but completely unnecessary. What you need right now is rest, and you aren't going to get it by staying late. C'mon. I'll walk you to your car."

"Thanks," I muttered.

I waited as he locked up the office, and then followed him out to the parking lot. At some point it had stopped raining, but the pavement was still wet, suggesting that the change in the weather had been recent. Unfortunately, the heat had come back now that the wind had stopped, and the air now felt humid and sticky as a result.

"Which one is yours?" Dr. Stevenson asked.

I pointed to my green Jeep Cherokee at the far end of the lot. "That one."

He nodded and started off in that direction. I gnawed my bottom lip as we continued walking, acutely aware of the awkward silence that had fallen between us.

"Well…," I said once I'd unlocked my door and climbed into the driver's seat. "Thanks for walking me to my car. See you tomorrow?"

A small smile played across his soft lips. "You're welcome. I hope you feel better, Christine."

He crossed the parking lot and got into his BMW, and after he got himself situated, he pulled up alongside me with an expectant look on his face. My hands tightened around the steering wheel in irritation. I guess he planned to escort me out of the parking lot as well. So much for sitting here and trying to come up with somewhere else to go that wasn't home.

Stifling a sigh, I waved at him and started my engine. Then I shifted into gear and headed toward the exit. Thankfully, once we got out to the main intersection I had to turn left and he turned right. While I waited for a gap in the oncoming traffic, I tapped my fingers against the wheel and wracked my brain for ideas on anything I could do that would keep me away from the house just a little longer.

Grocery shopping? No. I still had plenty of frozen TV dinners and really wasn't in need of anything else. I could call Maddie and see if I could join her for whatever exercise class she no doubt had planned for tonight. Ugh. I wasn't that desperate. Yet.

"Oh!"

Suddenly it hit me. I needed to replace some of the tile that the ghost had so kindly knocked off the kitchen counter. I could go to the home improvement store on my way home and pick up some more, and then wander around and look at things while I was there.

I made the turn and then sped up in order to switch lanes, excited to have something productive to do. I took the next right, and then immediately had to slam on my breaks so hard and fast that I forgot to push in the clutch, forcing my car to stall. The red and blue lights of emergency vehicles flashed a few blocks in front of me, and traffic in both lanes was at a complete standstill.

"Fantastic," I groaned, using the steering wheel to pull myself up taller so I could try to see what had happened. Unfortunately, the line of cars was too long, and I slumped back into my seat and tried to reason with myself that being stuck in traffic was ultimately a good thing, because it prolonged the time I would be out. Still, the thought of having to constantly work the clutch, creeping forward and stopping over and over again wasn't on the list of my favorite things to do.

After ten minutes of stop and go and only moving about a half a block, I was thoroughly agitated. Placing my left elbow against the ridge of the door, I glanced out the window and silently willed the traffic to go faster. Outside, the weather couldn't decide what it wanted to do, and soon tiny sprinkles of water began to splash against the windshield, picking up momentum as the heavens opened up and unleashed an encore of last night's performance.

I glared at the windshield, watching as the raindrops collected on the glass, creating distorted images of the cars and buildings in front of me before the monotonous swipe of the windshield wipers whisked them away from my field of vision. All of a sudden, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned my head just in time to see a woman dart out from a building, grab the portable A-frame style sign on the sidewalk, and then rush back inside the shop. Before she disappeared completely, I managed to catch a glimpse of the sign and my heart quickened at what I saw.

 _Psychic Medium: Palm, Tarot, and Spiritual Readings._

Ordinarily, I wasn't the type of person who believed that everyone had a destiny and that fate worked in mysterious ways, and blah, blah, blah. But after all that had happened, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that this was more than just a coincidence.

The truck ahead of me started to inch forward and soon the line of cars were moving again. I deliberated for a few seconds, unsure whether or not I was brave enough to give it a shot, before I impulsively switched on my blinker and made a last second turn into the parking lot.

The sound of tinkling chimes echoed around the small parlor as I breathlessly pushed through the door. The air inside was warm and smelled heavily of incense that immediately made me think of marigolds. Plush red carpet and red and gold damask wallpaper on the walls instantly created a welcoming atmosphere, and the Victorian-style settee and tables added an air of sophistication that I had not been expecting. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, actually. Maybe something more along the lines of a beautiful dark-haired woman in brightly colored Gypsy garb hovering over a crystal ball. I let out a nervous laugh and rubbed the back of my neck. I'd been watching too many movies and TV shows.

"I'll be right there," a female voice called out from somewhere in another room.

A few minutes later a middle-aged woman appeared. She had a round, pretty face with crow's feet surrounding blue eyes so light they appeared almost gray. She wore a white, fluttery shirt and brown skirt, and although she wore a scarf around her neck, it was more of the earth tone variety rather than the colorful apparel I had imagined her wearing. As she walked around the corner she gathered her damp blonde hair into a high ponytail, her eyes fixated on a point on the floor between us.

"I apologize," she said, her words muffled by the elastic she had pinched between her teeth. She grabbed the hair tie and wound it around her hair as she continued, "I was just about to close up. Didn't think anyone was going to come in with the weather being like it is—"

She chose that exact moment to look up at me, and when she did she recoiled as if I had just reached out and shook her by the shoulders. The rest of her sentence was left unfinished as she shifted her focus from me to a spot in the room behind me and then back to me again.

"But by the looks of things, it's a good thing I didn't," she whispered. Motioning with her hand, she beckoned to the hallway behind her. "Please, come in."

"What?"

Confusion crinkled my features into a scowl. What could she have possibly seen that made her react that way and say something like that? A sliver of dread slid down my throat and hit the bottom of my stomach. Maybe I'd made a mistake coming in here after all. For the briefest of moments, I stood in the lobby, paralyzed with indecision, until my curiosity ultimately won out and I forced my legs and feet to follow her down the hall.

The muted sounds of a babbling brook and relaxing music that featured the pan flute greeted me as I hesitantly walked into the small adjoining room. A tan leather couch ran along the wall on one side, and a bookshelf with all sorts of spiritual tomes filled the other. A round table with a beige table cloth and two chairs with red velvet cushions was positioned at the far end of the room, and it was there that the woman was now positioning a dish filled with herbs that I didn't recognize. When she was done, she struck a long match and carefully lit the incense, and soon the room was filled with the same summery marigold scent I had smelled when I first walked into the building. Then she turned to me and spread her hands out over the table in a welcoming gesture.

"Don't be shy," she said. "Please. Sit down."

Eying the burning incense suspiciously, I cautiously approached the table and slowly sat down in the chair. She nodded and took her seat on the other side.

"My name is Danica. May I have your name?"

"Chris. Well, it's Christine, but everyone calls me Chris."

Danica smiled. "Christine. That's a very pretty name."

"What happened back in the lobby?" I asked.

She studied me, her eyes boring into mine as if she were trying to reach the very center of my being. "I will get to that in a moment. But first, I would like you to tell me why you sought me out today."

I folded my arms, a little bit of my trepidation giving way to skepticism and I retorted rudely, "Shouldn't you know that already if you're a psychic?"

"To a certain degree," she replied. "I am a psychic medium, which means that I use my psychic abilities to communicate with the spirits of those who have passed on and to deliver messages between them and the living."

"Oh. Like, if I wanted to talk to my parents, you could help me with that?"

"Exactly." She leaned forward, and her gray-blue eyes pierced me with a knowing look. "But that's not why you're here, is it, Christine?"

"No." Taking a deep breath for courage, I revealed, "I want to find out what I took that's causing a ghost to suddenly haunt my house."

There. I said it. Was she going to think I was crazy now, too?

"What makes you think the haunting is related to something you took?"

The way she stated the question implied that she already knew the answer, and I was so intrigued by the possibility that I threw caution to the wind and blurted, "The ghost wrote 'give it back' on my bathroom mirror."

Danica's eyes widened, and once again, she glanced at a spot over my shoulder. "He's made contact with you?"

"He?" I spun around in my chair, trying to see what she saw, but the space behind me was empty. "How do you know it's a he?"

Turning her hands over so that they were palm up over the table, she said, "Give me your hands."

Desperate for answers, especially since she had managed to dodge every question I'd asked, I placed my hands in hers. Her head reared back the moment skin met skin, and a shockwave rippled through her entire body. She let out a small gasp as she reflexively curled her fingers around mind. Suddenly, she twisted the position of her right hand and gripped the ring on my left hand, her eyes snapping open in surprise.

"Where did you get this?"

"I uh…." Out of habit I started to tell her the same made-up story I had told everyone else, and then stopped as realization hit me like a bucket of ice water in the face. "I…I found it." Suddenly, I felt like I was going to throw up. I swallowed, willing the nausea to go away. "This…this is what I took from the ghost, isn't it?"

Danica had yet to let go of my finger. Slowly, she nodded.

"Oh, God." I yanked my hands out of her grasp and brought my right palm to my chest. Tears pricked at my eyes as I guilty rambled off the explanation of how it had ended up on my finger. "I was going to return it. Honest! But I forgot. And then one night I put it on and now…now I can't get it off! I've tried! What am I going to do?" I wailed.

"Christine, listen to me very carefully," she demanded. "Because this is extremely important. Did you notice any of these strange occurrences before you took the ring, or did they start happening after you put it on and couldn't get it to come off?"

"Um…." I thought back to the first known incident—the day I found my jewelry box on the floor. That had happened the day after Ben came over, and the night Ben came over was the night I had put the ring on in a moment of self-pity. "After."

"That's what I thought."

I wiped the tears from my eyes and sniffed. "What?"

"It's not your house that's haunted, Christine."

"But, I know what I saw—"

"It's you," she finished.

" _What?"_ Did I hear her correctly? "How can a _person_ be haunted?"

"It's rare, but it happens. The spirit is bound to you. Because of this." Danica took hold of my hand again and held it up so that I could see the ring on my finger.

"What do you mean 'bound to me?'"

"This ring, for one reason or another, is connecting you with the spirit," she explained.

I sank my teeth into my bottom lip. "Do you know what that reason is?"

The medium shook her head. "No. Usually I can read the spirits rather well, but this one is…guarded. Closed off. I'm not sure why."

"Is the spirit here, right now?" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.

"Yes."

I swiveled around in my seat again and scanned the room, as if I would be able to see it now that I knew of its presence.

"When a spirit haunts something—let's say a house, for instance," she went on, "they are usually confined to that area. Think of it as a kind of residual memory; a man wandering down the same hallway again and again, or a woman who constantly walks along the shore of a riverbank looking for her drowned child. Your haunting is different. Because the spirit is tied to you, he has the ability to go everywhere you go."

"So you're saying that he—the spirit is a man?" Danica silently nodded. "He follows me around?"

"At times. More like he has the ability to follow you if he chooses to."

"Like right now?"

"Like right now."

"Can you see him?" I asked. "What does he look like? How old is he? How long's he been dead? Can you tell him I didn't mean it?"

She held out her hand to stop my onslaught on questions. "As I said before, he's very closed off. I can't actually see him, but I _can_ sense his aura. It radiates off him like a heat coming off a fire, and it's full of so many conflicting emotions that I must take great care not to let him completely overwhelm me."

I shifted uneasily in my seat. "Should I be worried?"

She considered my question, and then, choosing her next words very carefully, she replied, "I would advise you to approach him with caution. I sense a lot of hostility in him, a lot of pain. He is also extremely possessive, but over what I'm not sure."

"Great." I slumped forward, placing my elbows on the tabletop so I could bury my face in the palms of my hands. "I have the worst luck."

"On the contrary, Christine, you have been given a great gift."

Picking my head up slightly, I moaned, "Oh yeah. I've stolen something from an evil spirit and now he's following me around to get it back, which is impossible because it's stuck on my finger! That's a _great_ gift."

She ignored my sarcasm and reached out, clasping my hand in both of hers. "I know this seems very daunting. And scary. But Christine, you have something that so many others do not; the ability to communicate with him. And that is an _exceptional_ gift."

My breath caught in my throat.

"Yes, child." Her smile was warm as she brushed an errant tear from my cheek. "I sensed it the moment you both walked through my door. Something has trapped him here, and whatever it is, it's preventing him from finding peace. He needs your help. I believe you were meant to find that ring, Christine. I think that's why it's stuck on your finger. He's bound to you for a reason, and I feel that once you find out what that is, he will finally be able to pass on and that ring will come off your finger."

I scrubbed my face with my hands. "This is a lot to take in."

"I know."

She stood and swept her arm in the direction of the door, gently ushering me toward the exit. I slowly got to my feet, and, with the feeling of lead in my stomach, allowed her to walk me out to the lobby.

"Wait!" I exclaimed as she held the door open for me. Digging in my purse for my wallet, I asked, "How much do I owe you for the session?"

Danica's expression sobered a bit. "Talk to him. Find a way to help him. That will be payment enough."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** This chapter took me a little longer to get done, mainly due to a lack of inspiration. But thanks to the Off-Broadway tour of Phantom of the Opera coming to my city two weeks ago, I have been brimming with ideas and inspiration ever since. I hope you enjoy. As always, please let me know what your thoughts are.

~Jamie

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

I'd heard enough. That woman, that _medium_ as she had so quaintly called herself, was an idiot. Even worse than that, she was a fraud. She was no better than the fortune tellers who traveled around with the Gypsy caravans, pretending to read peoples' palms and tell their futures for coin. It wasn't all that difficult to spout off vague information, or to read a person's body language and hone in on their reactions to key phrases in order make it seem like their fortune was specifically tailored to them.

In the span of a mere twenty minutes, this woman had that impressionable young woman believing that I was trapped in her house because there was something preventing me from crossing over. _That_ was the first indication that the lady was nothing more than a scam artist, and a mediocre one at that. Although it was a little unnerving that she picked up on my presence (I was still tempted to dismiss it as nothing more than a lucky guess), but had she truly been able to "read" me she would have known that my existence on this plane was out of punishment for my wicked deeds in life, not a reluctance to leave it due to some sort of unfinished business. Instead, she had managed to persuade the girl—rather convincingly, I might add—that it was her duty to help me find peace and move on.

I wheeled about on my heel and let out a growl as I retraced my path between the sofa and the staircase. The notion was as ridiculous as it was troublesome! The last thing I wanted or needed was the misplaced good intentions of a stranger. I wanted my ring back and to be left alone in peace. It was as simple as that.

And yet….

And yet, I begrudgingly had to admit that there were aspects to what this medium said that I could not ignore.

For one, up until now I had been unable to leave the confines of the opera house. Oh, I had tried on many occasions, but it was as if an invisible barricade had been built around the building, preventing me from leaving the premises. I now knew that my ring was supposedly responsible for bringing me into this stranger's living room, but it didn't necessarily explain why I had appeared without warning inside the shop earlier today. The last thing I remembered was standing by the window inside the house, having just expressed an interest in finding out more about the woman whose residence was now my prison.

My pacing slowed as I mulled over what the medium had said, that I could follow her if I chose to. Did my urge to find out more about her cause my sudden shift in location? And if so, why? Could that also explain why, after an overwhelming desire to distance myself from the whole mess, I had returned to her house, seemingly in the blink of an eye? Perhaps there was more to this medium's abilities than I was willing to give her credit for.

The other thing that unsettled me was her refusal to accept payment for the session. Why, for instance, would she go to the all trouble of providing a false reading if her overall goal wasn't to swindle the poor girl out of her money?

Damn it! The nature of this whole situation both perplexed and intrigued me. I couldn't very well denounce the existence of supernatural phenomena; after all, here I was more than a century after my death. But I also wasn't ready to accept what had just transpired as fact, either.

The sound of a key being slid into the lock on the front door tore me away from my acidic thoughts and put an abrupt end to my restless pacing. I could contemplate the where and why later. Right now, I had bigger issues to contend with.

A sliver of light cut across the wooden floor as the door creaked open in front of me and Christine—my heart gave a painful lurch at the mere thought of assigning that name to someone else—stepped over the threshold.

For the first time since finding myself here, I allowed myself to stare unabashedly and _really_ look at her. She was of average height, with a petite frame that made her appear weaker than I knew her to be after observing her work in her kitchen. Her blonde hair was shorter, just a little longer than chin length, and while I wasn't all that accustomed to women wearing such drastic styles, the slightly wavy way she kept it complemented her build nicely. Rather than make her appear boyish, the thin blond wisps softened her facial features and added another level to her femininity.

She had barely set foot in the living room when I heard her sharp intake of breath. Seconds later she staggered backward. I watched, transfixed, as the woman in front of me straightened and swung a cautious gaze around the room.

With a knowing glint in her hazel eyes that I was unable to comprehend, she whispered, "You know."

XXX

"You know," I said to the eerily empty room. "I can feel it."

And I could. As soon as I walked into the house it felt as if I had run headlong into a brick wall. The oppressive feeling was so intense, the air around me so charged, that I was sure one simple discharge of static electricity from me would be enough to ignite the whole room in flames. The overwhelming sensation of agitation and frustration made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

The medium had said that I would be able to understand and communicate with the spirit. Is this what she meant, that I would actually be able to feel and interpret his emotions? Because if I were reading the aura that seemed to penetrate the entire room right, then it meant my ghost was furious. The very idea that the ghost who inhabited my house was angry struck a very real fear in my heart, and it took nearly everything I had to convince myself to stay when all my instincts were screaming at me to run out that door and never come back.

What would he do now? He had already proven himself capable of touching and moving certain objects around the house. And he definitely wasn't afraid of making his presence known. Could he hurt me? Would he? Was I in real danger here? Danica acted like he was aloof and misunderstood and that he wouldn't do me any harm, but I also hadn't felt anything like this during my session, either. Maybe…maybe she had been wrong about him.

Oh, god! What was I going to do?

 _Don't panic_ , I told myself.

I wiped my palms off on my scrubs and forced myself to swallow over the lump currently constricting my throat.

"You're upset because now you know that I stole your ring." The air seemed to crackle and pulsate in answer to my observation. I forged on. If I didn't keep going I'd lose my nerve and then we'd be back at square one. "And because in doing so I trapped you here with me."

Again, I felt the air vibrate around me, only this time it was more intense. The energy almost seemed to emanate directly in front of me. Okay, definitely angry about being here.

"You have every right to be mad at me. I had no idea what I was doing when I took your ring." Frowning, I recalled spying the sparkle of gold embedded in the lake sediment. "My first thought was that someone had lost it and they were going crazy with worry because they didn't know where it had come off. I intended to take it to the lost and found, but…it was so scary down there that by the time I got back upstairs I completely forgot I had put it in my purse."

Another bit of memory from that day suddenly flashed in my mind. A sigh, a cold breeze on my neck, me running upstairs as though something—or someone—was standing in the shadows right behind me.

"You were there," I realized. "It was your presence I felt after I picked up your ring. Why?" I whispered. "What makes the ring the key to all of this?"

My brain seized the challenge like a drowning man would seize a life preserver. If I occupied my thoughts with trying to solve this new puzzle, then maybe I could ignore the fact that the suffocating feeling had yet to dissipate.

Circling slowly around the couch, I began to tick off ideas on my fingers, working through them as I walked.

"Okay, we know that the ring is somehow tied to you. Judging by the design, I'm going to say that it's most likely a wedding ring. But is it yours, or did it belong to somehow else? And how does losing it play into things? Danica said there is something keeping you from moving on. Maybe…um, maybe you died without it and that's why you want it back."

My heart quickened at the thought, especially considering what he wrote on my mirror. "Hmm…wait. If it was that simple, why is it still stuck on my finger?" Raising my hand up, I turned my palm over and watched as the light from the windows glinted off the simple gold band.

"It's kinda dainty," I mused. Almost like it was meant for a woman's finger, I thought. It certainly complemented my hand nicely. "Maybe it belonged to your wife—"

At that exact moment, every single light bulb in the front room lit up, from the table lamps to the hall light over the stairwell, each one growing brighter and brighter until, with a loud _pop, pop, pop_ , they exploded one by one, sending glass flying in all directions.

I screamed and dropped to the ground, covering my head to shield my face from the shards.

When it finally ended the house was silent once again, save for the sounds of my fractured breathing. Still crouching, I leaned forward, snatched my purse and car keys from the end table, and bolted out the front door and down the steps without a backward glance.

XXX

For a long time, I simply stared, mouth slightly agape, at the door through which Christine had just fled. Then, ever so slowly, I turned to look at the destruction my sudden outburst had left in its wake.

Small rings of broken glass surrounded the base of each table and floor lamp. The stairs were littered with shards that had fallen down from the overhead light like deadly raindrops.

I had lost control. I had allowed this woman's incessant rambling to get the better of my emotions. I could not, _would not_ , let it happen again.

XXX

"Jesus, Chris! Slow down! That's your third glass of wine."

In answer to Maddie's protests I upended the glass and dumped the rest of its contents down my esophagus. The liquid burned the back of my throat, sending me into a fit of coughing that eventually ended with me in tears.

I set the wine glass on her coffee table and buried my face in my hands as I sobbed. Moments later I felt Maddie's hand on my back, rubbing soothing circles across my shoulder blades.

She had found me in her driveway when she came home from the gym, clutching the steering wheel with wild, panic-stricken eyes. Naturally, she did what any best friend would do: she quickly ushered me inside and handed me a glass (or three) of alcohol to calm down.

"Shh," she crooned. "Tell me what happened. Does it have something to do with Ben?" Her eyes narrowed. "Do I need to kick his ass?"

"No," I replied, shaking my head. "There was a-another disturbance. At the house."

"What kind of disturbance?"

I told her about the evil feeling I felt when I had walked in, and how all the light bulbs exploded when I tried to address the ghost. Of course, I left out the part about my psychic reading, as well as everything the medium had said about the spirit being bound to me by his ring. Maddie was already skeptical about the whole thing; I was actually surprised she agreed to the séance. Besides, if this is what talking to the ghost got me, I wasn't sure I wanted to carry on any more conversations with him.

"Are you sure you're not making more out of this than there really is?" she asked, confirming my thoughts. "I'm sure there's a logical explanation. Maybe all the lights blew out because of a power surge from the storms. You know, that's why they tell us to plug everything into those surge protectors."

I grimaced. "I don't know…"

"I'm not saying that what happened wasn't scary. But you've had a rough week, with some major upsets. All I'm saying is that maybe you're so focused on thinking you suddenly have a ghost that it's got you jumping at shadows."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her all about the ring and the message on my mirror last night, but something made me hesitate at the last second. Whether it was shame over having absconded with the ring in the first place or the fear that she would think I was going crazy, I wasn't sure, but I wasn't ready to find out just yet.

"Maybe you're right," I agreed with a sigh. "But if it's all the same to you, do you mind if I stayed the night? I don't want to be home alone right now, and I don't think I could drive anyway," I added, pointing to the nearly empty bottle of wine sitting next to my completely empty wine glass.

Maddie smiled. "Yes, that's fine. Want me to drive you over there so you can get some clothes for tonight and work tomorrow?"

"Please."

It was dark when Maddie and I walked up the steps to my front porch and I unlocked the door to let us in. That point was driven home even more by the fact that none of my lights in the front room worked now.

I was anxious to see if Maddie picked up on the sinister vibe, but to my complete and utter dismay, the house felt normal. The heavy, concentrated rage I had experienced early that day was nowhere to be found. Instead, the house felt just like it always did; open, welcoming, and just a bit on the lonely side. If not for the slivers of glass all over the floor I could have almost persuaded myself that I had imagined the whole thing.

I quickly charged up the stairs and into my bedroom, sighing with intense relief when I discovered that the lights in there were still intact and functioning normally. Grabbing a small backpack from my closet I stuffed a clean pair of scrubs, yoga pants, and a tee shirt into the bag. Then I went over to my dresser and gathered up a bra, underwear and socks. My final stop was the bathroom to collect the travel sized toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, and body wash from a basket on the shelf next to the sink. My eyes lingered on the vanity mirror as I picked up my hairbrush and makeup bag, and a shudder worked itself up my spine.

Would I ever feel comfortable in my house again?

XXX

I spent a good deal of time at work the following day Googling information about ghosts and hauntings on my phone. Fridays were by far our slowest day, and the break in patients gave me ample time to waste researching ideas and suggestions on how to deal with aggressive spirits.

 _Be assertive_ , one article said. _Tell the spirit that it's your house and you won't be pushed around._

 _Remember that ghosts were people once_ , another cautioned. _They are still able to experience a range of emotions._

There was another article dedicated to the use of different tools that could facilitate communication between the living and the dead. Of course, the Ouija board was one of them, but it also said that people had found success by using mirrors, candles, tape recorders, and meditation. One website I visited encouraged the use of cameras to capture the ghost's essence. Apparently, the strong pockets of energy I had felt were not uncommon. It meant the ghost was present and might even be trying to communicate. The site stated that if I took pictures of my surroundings every time I felt the spirit's presence, I could potentially capture anything from round orbs to a smoky haze to a full-on apparition.

The old saying 'knowledge is power' popped into my head, and at that moment I truly understood what it meant. After spending the day reading, I felt more equipped to handle the situation and less likely to let the ghost intimidate me.

That night I went home with resolve in my heart. I had new things to try. I felt confident that eventually I would find the right conductor with which to communicate with the ghost. And somehow, I would find a way to help him and set us both free.

When I opened the door to the house this time, I made sure to keep all awkwardness and uncertainty out of my voice and body language. I couldn't let him see that I was terrified. I needed to keep my wits about me and act as normal as possible.

Setting my things down in their usual spot on the end table, I marched directly into the kitchen and retrieved the shop vacuum that I kept in there to clean up after I worked with the tile and lugged it back into the front room.

Once I was sure that all the glass was gone, I put the vacuum away and threw a TV dinner in the microwave. While I waited for it to become edible I went to the hall closet and rummaged around until I found a package of brand new lightbulbs. The hall light above the stairs would have to wait, since I was too short to reach it and didn't feel like performing an acrobatic stunt by balancing on an unstable ladder positioned haphazardly on the stairs. But I could at least replace the bulbs in the lamps.

The timer on the microwave beeped, signaling that my dinner was done. I placed the steaming hot tray on a plate and went to the front room, where I sat on the couch and formulated a plan while I dined over rubbery fettuccini alfredo.

One of the articles I'd read mentioned that mirrors were a good way to communicate. That seemed true enough, since it was the chosen medium my ghost had used to contact me. Maybe that was a good place to start.

I finished eating, dumped the tray in the trash, and slid the plate next to the others in the dishwasher. Then I went upstairs and into the bathroom. Since the ghost had told me what he wanted using the mirror, maybe the messages could work both ways.

I shut the bathroom door and opened the hot water faucets on both the sink and the bathtub, allowing them to run until the area was billowing with hot steam. It wasn't long until the mirror fogged over with condensation. Steeling myself for what could potentially follow, I wrote out a message of my own.

 _Who are you?_

Several tense seconds eked by, and eventually the words faded as they were covered in new condensation. I tried again.

 _Name?_

Again, the letters came and went, and still no response. By this time the air inside the tiny room was sweltering. The heat plastered my hair to my forehead and neck and sweat poured down my cheeks.

"Okay, enough!" I muttered to myself.

I shut off the faucets and yanked the door open. The cool draft that hit me as I walked back into the bedroom was absolutely heavenly. I pinched my shirt between my fingers and moved it up and down, hoping that the slight breeze would help me cool down faster.

"You're awfully quiet tonight."

That was an understatement. Not only was he still refusing to communicate with me, but, just as it had when Maddie brought home me to get clothes, the feeling from yesterday evening was completely nonexistent.

I gnawed on my lower lip.

Why would he be so angry yesterday and so calm tonight? What changed? I left, for one. Yeah, but that didn't make sense, since he could follow me. He wanted his ring back, not the house to himself.

 _The ring!_

Every time I mentioned the ring, he became more and more irate. Then, when I asked if it belonged to his wife, everything around me exploded.

"I think I'm on to something here."

Grabbing the scented candle and a lighter from my bedside table, I hurried back out onto the landing and down the stairs. I walked to the center of the living room and turned in a slow circle, taking in everything that I saw.

"Okay, listen," I demanded with more authority in my voice than I really felt. "We can't keep doing this. You want your ring back and I can't give it back because it's stuck on my finger and won't come off until we find whatever it is that's preventing you from crossing over. It sucks. I'm just as thrilled about it as you are. So," I held up the candle, "if we ever want to figure that out, we are going to have to learn how to communicate with each other."

I sparked the lighter and lit the candle. Then I set it on the coffee table and sat down on the couch. As a last consideration, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and set it next to the candle.

"This is how it's going to work. I'm going to ask you simple yes-no questions, and if the answer is yes then you make the candle flame flicker. If it's no, don't do anything. Just let it sit. Got it?"

I waited, trying to relax as best I could so I would be receptive to any changes in temperature and atmosphere. So far, nothing seemed different. I was beginning to feel rather stupid about the whole thing when suddenly, the candle flame moved.

I froze. I didn't dare to move or to breathe. I had to be sure that I hadn't been the cause of the flame's movement. The tiny flame centered itself, burning steadily and motionless. Staring at it, I silently willed it to move. It could have been a draft, the wind squeezing in through the window casements, or from the central air turning on or off. Anything could have been responsible. As much I wanted that flame to move, I needed to be sure that I wasn't projecting my feelings on to it and seeing what I wanted to see.

But another minute passed and nothing happened. Licking my lips, I asked my next question.

"Was that you? Did you do that?"

Just as doubt was starting to creep back in again, the candle flame bobbed up and down.

I sat back with a gasp and covered my nose and mouth with my hands.

 _Oh my god. Was this really happening?_

Only one way to find out.

"Does this mean that you're willing to work me to figure out why you're trapped here?"

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the tiny tendril of fire swirled around the wick.

Triumphantly, I pressed on.

"Did this ring have anything to do with how you died?"

The flame remained stock still.

"No. Did you lose it?"

Nothing.

"No. Okay, then. Did it belong to someone you loved?"

A strong gust of wind _whooshed_ in front of me and the flame went out. Suddenly, the oppressive feeling returned. It throbbed darkly around me, as if warning me that I was treading into dangerous territory.

Maybe I should have listened and dropped the subject, but I'd always had an annoying habit of learning a lesson the hard way, and so I ventured on.

"I'll take that as a yes."

I relit the candle and set it down on the table and picked up my phone instead. Opening the camera app I took several pictures, moving from left to right in a one-hundred-eighty degree span around me.

"So, this ring has special meaning to you. And I'm wearing it. No wonder you're pissed off. Is this special person still alive?"

The candle flew off the table before I could even register what was happening. It rolled along the floor and came to a stop when it bumped into the chair next to the couch. Thankfully, the abrupt motion extinguished the flame, but it left a trail of candle wax that was quickly drying onto my rug.

For the second time in as many days, rage overrode my instinctive fear of the ghost.

" _Stop that!"_ I shouted. "I get that I've touched a nerve, but can you _please_ find a way to tell me that isn't going to destroy all my stuff? God dammit!"

I snapped a few more pictures and then stomped over to pick up the candle, muttering as I went.

"How the hell am I supposed to get all this wax out of my carpet?"

Of course, there was no answering reply or helpful suggestions coming from the ghost.

"You-you know what?" I spat. "I'm done for the night. Leave me alone and let me enjoy my weekend in peace!"

Candle in one hand, I snatched the lighter off the the table and pounded my way up the stairs. I was too mad to even think about cleaning up the mess tonight. I'd deal with it in the morning. All I wanted to do right now was take a steaming hot shower and calm down.

Fifteen minutes later I emerged from the bathroom feeling marginally better than I did before I went in. I was also relieved to see that the ghost had apparently taken my advice; my mirror was entirely absent of cryptic messages. I put on a comfy pair of sweats that I had cut off into shorts and a loose tank top, and then grabbed my phone and sat on my bed to see if I had any new text messages.

Aside from an ad from my favorite pizza chain telling me about a buy-one-get-one-free special, there were no new updates from either Maddie or Rochelle.

For lack of something better to do, I navigated to my camera and pulled up my photo reel. Might as well see if I got anything on camera during my brief but destructive conversation with the ghost.

The first few pictures looked normal. However, there was a dark smudge on the third one that looked suspiciously like a shadow. I flipped to the next one. Sure enough, the black smudge was darker. The next two didn't show anything abnormal, but the fifth one shook me to my very core.

In it, the shadow had materialized into the shape of a tall but extremely thin man. It looked like he was wearing a tux or some sort of black suit. I couldn't quite make out all the details, because he was either swathed in shadows, or he was wearing a black mask that covered the majority of his face.

I dropped my phone.

Black mask. Evening dress. Reedy appearance.

No. It couldn't be. That was just a story.

With shaking fingers, I picked up my phone and looked again, using my fingertips to expand the photo so I could scrutinize hazy details.

What I saw didn't make any sense.

Why was I, of all people, being haunted by the Phantom of the Opera?


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry about the extremely long delay in updating. I am not going to lie. I struggled big time with this chapter. It is such a pivotal chapter, and I just could not, for the life of me, convey the emotions properly. About halfway through the chapter I scrapped the whole thing and went a completely different direction. I like how it turned out, but I'm still nervous.

Oh, one more thing before I let you get to reading. After combing back over the original novel I discovered that Erik's mask is actually black. So that is corrected in this chapter as well as chapter six.

Okay. Go forth and read and tell me what you think.

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

I was crazy.

Coping with Ben's adultery, dealing with the divorce that followed, disappointment stemming from my dead-end job, and stress from my recent transatlantic travel had all apparently coalesced to push me past the tipping point of my sanity, and now, as a result, I was completely, one-hundred-percent, batshit crazy. How else would I explain what I was seeing now?

No. There was no other explanation. Because, here, in the real world nothing else _but_ being one-hundred-percent batshit crazy made any sort of sense.

 _The Phantom of the Opera_ was a book. It wasn't _real_! Some guy made it all up. Well, okay, there was the part at the very beginning where the author claimed that the Opera Ghost had really existed, but I'd always figured it was there as some sort of a plot device, not something to be actually be believed!

And even if I did decide to suspend reality and pretend that such things could actually happen, the question still remained: _why_? What did the Opera Ghost have to do with the ring? From the information I'd gathered from the episode with the candle, he wasn't condemned to wander the spirit realm because he had lost it and had been searching for it, nor did it have anything to do with how he actually died. At this point I wasn't sure if it was even his. Every time I tried to ask if it belonged to someone else, he would cause a disturbance and the conversation would come to a screeching halt.

I needed something to calm me down, something to take the edge of my mounting panic and help me sort everything out. I pushed off my bed and went downstairs to the kitchen, where I rummaged through all the clutter on my kitchen table until I found a half-consumed bottle of merlot. Yanking out the cork, I skipped the glass and took a long pull straight from the neck of the bottle. Eventually I needed to find a healthier coping mechanism before I became a full-blown alcoholic, but at that moment I couldn't care less.

I chugged the rest of the wine and set the bottle down on the table with a heavy _clunk_. Then I ran my hands through my hair and took a deep, cleansing breath. I could already feel the effects of the liquor warming my veins as it slithered its way through my bloodstream.

All right, what did I know? I knew that I was being haunted by someone who bore a striking resemblance to the Phantom of the Opera. I also knew that I was currently wearing a ring that held significant value to him, whether it was his or it belonged to someone he knew. So, if it wasn't his, then who would have been special enough to him that removing said ring from the cellars would have thrust his spirit into this day and age?

A thought tickled the far reaches of my mind, just beyond my grasp. It seemed like I should know the answer to this, almost like I had seen it before….

Oh, shit.

I raced back upstairs, taking the steps two at a time until I reached the landing. Sprinting into my bedroom, I snatched my e-reader off the nightstand and switched it on, scanning back and forth through the electronic pages of _The Phantom of the Opera_ until I found the passage I was looking for. There, located at the very end of the last chapter, was the part about the Phantom giving Christine a plain gold wedding ring in exchange for her freedom, along with his blessing for her to marry the Vicomte de Chagny. All that he asked in return was that she come back after receiving notice of his death and bury him with it.

All the blood drained from my face, and suddenly, despite the lingering heat of the day, I was cold all over. A sharp twinge in my stomach was all the warning I received before its contents, now swimming in half a bottle of wine, flip-flopped. Scrambling off the bed like my life depended on it, I raced into the bathroom, fell to my knees on the soft, cushy bathmat in front of the toilet, and heaved up everything I had ate and drank earlier that evening.

When it was all over I used the edge of the sink to pull myself up off the floor. My skin was slick with a thin layer of sweat and I was shaking from head to toe. I rinsed my mouth out and then splashed cool water on my face. Dabbing my lips and cheeks dry with the hand towel that hung on a hook next to the medicine cabinet, I gazed warily at my reflection in the mirror. My hazel eyes were dark, their brightness now shadowed by an intense amount of fear and guilt.

If what was written in the book had actually occurred, then it was no wonder why my ghost had reacted so violently to my probing questions. Because if all this really was real, then I had not only stolen his ring, I had stolen a keepsake—a final reminder—of the woman he loved.

Another wave of nausea swept over me as I realized that I could have very possibly taken the ring from the Phantom's final resting place. I wasn't just a thief. I was a grave robber.

Gripping the edges of the sink I tried to steady myself against the sudden onslaught of dizziness as darkness closed in around me.

XXX

When I came to everything around me was dark, and for one terrifying moment I didn't know where I was. Eventually, the cool feeling of the tiled bathroom floor pressing against my cheek and the pounding in my head brought me back to the present. Groaning, I slowly pushed myself into a sitting position. As I did, the thumping behind my eyes grew more intense, and the pedestal of the bathroom sink danced hazily before me as the room spun.

"Jesus," I muttered.

I had never passed out before, but I decided then and there that I never wanted to do it again. The aftermath was worse than any hangover I'd ever had.

Once I was sure that standing up wouldn't result in a repeat performance, I got to my feet and examined myself in the mirror. A large, angry looking red bump on the left side of my forehead glared back at me. Well, that explained the headache, at least.

Sighing, I left the bathroom, pausing at my bed long enough to collect my phone from where I'd thrown in on the bedspread in my haste to get to the bathroom, and went downstairs to retrieve an icepack from the freezer. Then I returned to the front room, flopped on the couch without bothering to turn on any lights, and placed it on my forehead.

"Ow," I whined, sucking air between my teeth.

The silence that had descended upon the house was heavy and oppressive. I wasn't sure if that meant he was there in the room with me, or if I was creating the feeling myself due to a guilty conscience.

What I did know was that I had never had that sort of reaction before in my life. Even when I confronted Ben the morning after he didn't come home and he revealed he'd been cheating on me for months, nothing like that had happened. Sure, I felt sick. My whole world had just been upended. I may have cried and stomped around and maybe thrown a thing or two in anger, but I certainly never threw up or fainted because of it.

Perhaps, I reasoned, that was because I knew Ben would never hurt me physically. Emotionally yes. He'd torn my heart into tiny pieces without a second thought. But not once in the five years we were married had I ever been afraid of him.

My ghost on the other hand? I'd be crazy not to be scared of him. He certainly hadn't been shy about letting me know when he was pissed off. That upped the fear factor another notch just on poltergeist behavior alone. That sort of activity was enough to make anyone pause and consider relocating. And while it had had me on edge all week, I could more or less deal with those antics. No; it wasn't the slamming doors or the flickering lights or cryptic mirror messages that had me rattled. It was finding out just _who_ he was that had me trembling in terror.

The Phantom of the Opera wasn't a nice guy. Despite the book's weak attempts at making him seem like the poor, misunderstood victim, the fact still remained that he was the villain in the story. He had done some truly appalling things in order to get what he wanted, and he didn't seem to find anything wrong with his methods of obtaining whatever that was. Stealing, lying, extortion, kidnapping, murder….

Murder.

In the book he'd killed a number of people. Anyone who angered him or tried to stop him or got in the way of what he wanted was swiftly and violently dealt with. He hadn't batted an eye when Raoul and the Persian had stumbled into his torture chamber. Then, to make an already bad situation worse, he'd threatened to kill Raoul and all of Paris if Christine didn't agree to marry him, virtually leaving her no choice in the matter. Hell, he even dropped a chandelier on several innocent people just to prove a point, and the scene-shifter, Buquet, was dispatched simply because he discovered that the Opera Ghost was a real person and not just a legend.

Discovered the Opera Ghost was real…. Just like I had. And I had given him plenty of reasons to be angry with me….

Oh my god.

I leapt off the couch, heart in my throat. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe! My chest constricted as panic coursed through my nervous system, closing off my airway. I coughed, clutching the front of my shirt as I desperately tried to catch my breath before I blacked out again. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but whether they were out of fear, and overreaction due to the wine, or a the lack of oxygen, I didn't know. I didn't care. I let them fall as I considered everything that had happened up to this point. Things were definitely escalating, the disturbances growing in intensity with each attempt at conversation. He'd proven he could move objects around the house whenever it suited him. Was he capable of making physical contact with me? If he could, would he? What would happen if I pushed him beyond the limits of his tolerance?

"Please," I begged when I was finally able to form a coherent sentence. Even so, my voice cracked. "Please don't hurt me. It was an accident, I swear! You have to believe me. I never meant to make you angry. Just…just please, don't hurt me."

XXX

 _Please don't hurt me._

I had lost count over the years of how many times those particular words had been said to me. How foolish of me to think that dying meant that I would never have to hear them again.

However, hearing them from the woman before me now left me stunned and more than a little confused. She didn't know me. She had no way of knowing what had occurred in my past. To her, I was nothing more than the ghost who was haunting her house. She'd never set eyes on me, and our only interaction thus far came from what I chose to reveal to her. Aside from the small disturbances I'd created, I had given her no cause for such an unexpected and dramatic reaction. Something had happened in the time since she had furiously stomped upstairs, something that had unsettled her and had her convinced that she was in the presence of something evil intent on doing her harm. It didn't matter how she came by such knowledge. My mind had already bypassed all rational thought and was now focused on an achingly familiar sight; that of a woman shrinking away from me, crying in terror and pleading for mercy.

I began pacing back and forth as she continued to whimper on the sofa. I needed to channel my energy into something else, and soon, before I lost my temper.

"I didn't know," she sobbed, her eyes darting frantically around the parlor. "I didn't know anything about you until after I left the cellars. If I'd known that was the ring you gave to Christine, I would have _never_ picked it up in the first place!"

I whipped around to face her.

"How do you know that?" I demanded vehemently, even though I knew she couldn't hear me. My insides twisted with years of repressed aggression and longing upon hearing that name spoken aloud. The grip I had on my emotions snapped like a weathered piece of rope, severing the last of my restraint. Without thinking I surged forward, looming over her as I bellowed, "How do you know her name?!"

XXX

I watched, horrified, as the shadows around the room shifted. All of a sudden, a black shape materialized out of thin air and seconds later the outline of my ghost appeared before me. His form, while still transparent enough that I could see the furniture behind him, spun around, the movement causing the long, black cloak he wore to swirl around him. When he turned I was immediately drawn to the golden eyes that glared at me from behind a black mask. My next impression was of how tall and slender he was. I clocked in around five-seven and he towered over me by at least four to five inches.

I was only afforded the briefest of glimpses before he rushed toward me. Something about the way his fists were clenched at his sides, and the set of his jaw filled me absolute terror. Before I even knew what was happening, he was right above me.

"How do you know that?" the ghost shouted in a terrible, booming voice. "How do you know her name?!"

"Stop!" I screamed. I slid off the sofa and crumpled to the ground. Curling into a ball, I covered my head with my arms. "Y-you showed up in one of the…the pictures I took earlier. Once I discovered it was you, it wasn't hard to figure the rest out."

"No one knows who Erik is!" he raged. "Everyone who knew Erik is dead! So how is it _you_ know about Erik?!"

"The book, from the book! Oh, god, I'm sorry," I stuttered, trying to make myself as small as possible. "I read about you and Christine in the book—"

I froze, and the rest of the explanation died on my tongue. My head reared up at the same time that the ghost recoiled and took a step back. Those strange, glowing eyes cut to mine in search of answers and widened when our gazes locked. The spark of acknowledgement, of realization, sizzled between us. As we stared at each other it felt as if a white-hot bolt of electricity arced from his body to mine, and it was apparent from the look of utter disbelief dancing across those amber orbs that he was just as shocked as I was.

A thousand questions exploded in my mind all at once. What just happened? Was I really seeing this, or was it just some sort of alcohol induced hallucination? And if it wasn't, then why, after a week of torment, could I suddenly see and hear him now? Was this the gift that Danica told me I had—that I could talk to the spirits? Why just this ghost, then? If I truly was medium, shouldn't this have happened before now? Wouldn't I be able to walk out my front door and find and start conversations with all the other ghosts in the world?

The whole thought process probably took less than thirty seconds, but by the time my brain had finally made the connection with my mouth, his figure had vanished.

I wasn't waiting to find out whether or not he still lingered in the room with me. I jumped to my feet and ran into my office-slash-formal dining room and yanking open the laptop that sat on the small freestanding computer desk.

In all the books, movies, and TV shows I'd read or seen that had to do with hauntings, the number one way to get a ghost to stop was to give it what it wanted. So maybe if I returned the ring to where I found it, it would loosen to the point I could get it off my finger and he would be happy and leave me alone.

Opening up the internet browser, I quickly navigated to the travel website I'd used to book my vacation to Europe. Then I typed Paris, France in the destination field and hit enter. I didn't need to stay long. After all, I wasn't sight-seeing or anything like that. I just needed to land, get to the Opera House, hopefully put the ring back in the cellars, and fly home.

The little 'busy' icon circled around, indicating that the program was thinking and tabulating the results. I tapped my fingernails against the computer's housing impatiently. Finally, the page loaded and the list of available flights populated the screen.

My heart sunk.

"You've got to be freaking kidding me," I moaned.

The prices it was showing me were almost as much as my entire vacation! It had cost me around twenty-five-hundred dollars to book my trip to Europe seven months ago, and that had included airfare. So naturally, I thought a quick trip to Paris and back—three days at most—would have been substantially cheaper.

Boy, was I wrong.

Even if I went with the least expensive flight option, I'd still be paying around eighteen-hundred dollars, and that was with an airline that was notorious for reportedly bad customer service, high baggage fees, and small, uncomfortable seats. I would willingly put up with all that hassle in a heartbeat if it meant freeing myself of the ghost, but there was no way I could come up with that kind of money. If I scrimped and saved every extra cent from each paycheck and only spent the bare minimum, it would still take me at least six months to be able to afford to go.

I slammed the lid of my laptop in disgust.

Now what was I going to do?

Was I condemned to be haunted by the Opera Ghost forever? Danica was wrong. There was no talking to him. Helping him was impossible when any attempt I'd made was met with a ferocious temper. It was clear he didn't want my help. Would I always be forced to live in fear, afraid that the next time we had a confrontation he might actually do something that caused me harm?

How had one good deed, which seemed so selfless and noble at the time, turned in to such a nightmare? Why was I being punished?

I pulled my legs up so that my heels rested on the edge of the chair. Wrapping my arms around my knees I buried my face against my thighs, and, for what seemed like the hundredth time that week, began to cry.

* * *

Poor Christine! She's a strong gal, but everyone has their breaking point and I think she just found hers. And Erik. Woah. He got a bit dark there.

I'd really appreciate your feedback on this one. If you get a chance, please leave a review or PM me and tell me what you thought.

Thanks everyone!

~Jamie


	8. Chapter 8

Hello, dear readers! It amazes me that a year has already passed since I started this little adventure. Time sure does fly. To celebrate this story's upcoming first anniversary, I bring you not one but two chapters!

For all that I struggled with last chapter, this chapter (and then next) practically wrote itself. I had a lot of fun with it. I hope you enjoy it as well.

One last thing. I've noticed (with this story and my other Phantom fics) that it is extremely hard to break in, get noticed, and establish a large reader base within this phandom. So I'd like to ask you all a favor. If you're enjoying this story, please spread the word. Let other people know about. And please, if you can, leave me a review.

Thank you.

~J

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

Her soft, plaintive sobs drifted to me from the other room. She was upset, and rightly so. I had behaved like a wild animal, lashing out in anger at what I didn't understand. React first, think later. That was usually how I went about everything.

Nonetheless, it wasn't like me to feel guilty over my actions. Usually I could justify what I did as being necessary. This time, however, I could not get the look of abject terror in her eyes out of my mind. Eyes that had locked with mine. I don't know how or why, but in that moment, she saw me—truly saw me. And if that weren't strange enough, she'd heard me as well.

How long had it been since I'd made eye contact with anyone? Certainly not since I'd died. And before that….

" _Christine, for God's sake, let us leave this place!"_

" _I want you to promise me," I said softly, pointedly ignoring the boy's passionate pleas. I placed my ring in the palm of her hand and gently pushed her fingers closed around it. "Promise me you'll come back when you receive word of my death and bury my body. With this. Do you promise, Christine?"_

 _She slowly lifted her gaze, her beautiful cornflower blue eyes boring into mine. "Yes, Erik. I promise."_

 _I squeezed her hand and nodded, too overcome with emotion to say anything more._

 _This time when the Vicomte tugged at her sleeve, she went with him willingly. Clutching my ring to her breast, she cast a glance my way one last time, and then left without another word._

I closed my eyes and shook my head, chasing the image of her from my head.

There had to be a reason why, after all these years, I was able to interact with someone on that level. And right now, there was only one way to find out.

XXX

I woke up in a pissy mood. Not even the golden rays of sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, glittering with the promise of a warm, gorgeous Saturday could pull me out of my funk.

For the longest time I just laid there, staring up at the ceiling.

How could I come up with enough cash to get my ass to Paris right now rather than later? What were my options?

I could get a part-time job. Maybe the home improvement store I frequented all the time was hiring. It couldn't hurt to swing by and put in an application. I frowned. But working there might burn me out on my kitchen project, and I really needed to be home to focus on that anyway. I couldn't live off frozen TV dinners and cereal forever.

What else, then? A loan, maybe?

Hey…. That wasn't a bad idea. I was in desperate need of something to rebuild my credit, since it had gone to hell in a hand basket after my divorce. Making monthly house payments wasn't doing anything, since I technically didn't own the house yet, and my car had been paid off for years. Yeah…a loan. I liked the sound of that.

The credit union I banked with was open until two o'clock on Saturdays. If I quit feeling sorry for myself and hurried over there, there was a chance that I could have that money in my pocket and a trip scheduled within a few days.

An hour and a half later I pulled into the parking lot of the Second Street Credit Union. I gathered all the paperwork I thought I might need from the passenger seat and headed inside.

"I can help you over here," a pretty brunette greeted as I walked through the door. Her name tag read 'Cynthia.'

"I want to apply for a loan."

"Oh, sure," Cynthia said. "One moment."

She typed something on what I assumed was some sort of internal messaging system. Another few minutes passed as we waited for an answer. Eventually, the computer dinged, and she looked back up at me.

"Right this way." Cynthia led me past the post and rope barrier used to line up the customers and ushered me into one of the offices off to the side. "Have a seat and Jennifer will be right with you."

"Thank you."

She nodded and left. I pulled out on of the chairs in front of a rather intimidating-looking wooden desk and sat down, placing my paperwork on my lap. There was something about applying for a loan that always made me nervous. It had been that way when Ben and I had applied for our mortgage as well. Maybe it was because the loan officer would always ask personal questions, or maybe it was fear of rejection. Whatever the reason, though, this time was no different.

I was picking invisible lint off my shirt when Jennifer breezed in. She had to have been in her late-forties, and had a harsh, take-no-shit look about her. Her skin was tan and slightly leathery, as if she had spent most of her younger years in tanning salons. She had dark, almost black shoulder-length hair that fell around her face in layers, but it did nothing to soften her facial features. Her gray-green eyes dropped to my shoes and slowly lifted until she made eye contact with me. I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze.

"Mrs. Davies?"

"That's 'Ms.,'" I corrected. "I'm divorced. Davies is my maiden name."

"Ms. Davies, then. I heard that you want to apply for a loan with us."

"Yes, please. Just a small one," I added, just in case it made any difference. "Around three thousand dollars."

I figured that three grand would cover the cost of the plane ticket there and back, plus a hotel room if I ended up needing one, as well as cover the hit I'd take on my paycheck for missing work since I'd already exhausted my vacation time during my last trip to Europe.

Jennifer nodded noncommittally. "It sounds like a signature loan might be the best option for you. Here." She grabbed a paper application from one of the stackable shelves on her desk and handed it to me. "Fill this out. When you're done, I'll submit it to underwriting for approval."

I was barely able to repress a shudder at the word 'underwriting.' Images of Carly's long red hair and well-toned physique flashed before my eyes. Thank God she was an insurance underwriter and not a personal loan underwriter, or I probably would have been screwed.

"Sounds good," I managed to get out. I reached for a pen from the cup on Jennifer's desk and forced myself to focus on the information it was asking for.

When I was finished, I handed it back to her and placed the cap back on the pen.

"All right," she said. "I'll get this submitted and let you know. Give me…five to ten minutes?"

I nodded. "Okay."

"Excellent. I'll be right back."

She walked out of the office and disappeared down a hallway. I sat back in the chair. Through the window behind Jennifer's desk I noticed that a slight breeze had picked up. When I walked out to my Jeep this morning I'd noticed there was a chill in the air that hadn't been there before. The days were steadily growing shorter as we inched closer to autumn, and even though it had warmed up after the recent storms, today hinted that cooler temperatures were on their way.

I'd always been fond of fall. The colors of the changing leaves. The crisp, fresh air. The smell of baked goods and pumpkin spice. However, this year I wasn't as excited about it as I usually was. Next month marked a year since Ben had revealed he'd been cheating on me with Carly and filed for divorce.

Now, instead of enjoying sweater weather, cute autumn decorations, and hot, pumpkin spice lattes, all I could think about was how I had waited up all night for Ben to get home, worried sick that something might have happened to him. When he finally did slink through the door—sometime around four in the morning—and found me waiting for him at the kitchen table, he didn't even bother to deny it.

The memory was just as raw today as the morning it happened.

" _Where have you been?"_

 _Ben shifted his jacket from one arm to the other and raked his fingers through his messy brown hair. "Out."_

"' _Out?'" I echoed sarcastically. "What the hell does that mean?"_

" _It means I'm seeing someone and have been for a while."_

"Christine?"

I jumped, the sound of the loan officer's voice catapulting me out of my thoughts. "Yes?"

Jennifer came around the desk and sat down in her chair with a frown.

"Well," she began, "It looks like we are unable to approve your application at this time."

My shoulders slumped. "Does…does it give a reason why?"

She opened the manila fine folder that contained my application and trailed her finger down the page until she found the notes section. "It says that there hasn't been enough time between now and when some of your delinquent accounts were charged off."

Great. Another wonderful byproduct of my divorce. In the process of settling accounts and paying all the attorney's fees, I'd had to let some of my credit cards go unpaid. Unfortunately, rather than work with me to get the past due payments caught up, they'd closed my accounts instead.

"Oh."

"I would suggest that you try again in another six months or so."

Six months. It seemed like everything was going to take six months. If I had to wait that long, then I might as well just save the money from each check, pay for the ticket free and clear, and not have to worry about a stupid loan.

"All right. I'll consider that," I lied. Standing up, I reached across Jennifer's desk and held my hand out. "Thank you for your time."

She took my hand in a weak grip and shook it. "Come back and see us soon."

I fumed the entire way home. Not only was I back at square one, but I had wasted a whole Saturday morning in the process. I could have been doing something productive, like mowing the lawn or working in my kitchen instead of meeting with a loan officer who had treated me like an inconvenience from the very beginning rather than a valued credit union member.

God. I didn't want to wait six months. If only there was some other way to come up with that money. Maybe I could sell something. I'm sure if I looked around the house I could find something of value that I didn't need.

Spurred on by the possibility, I hit the gas and hurried home.

XXX

The first thing I did when I got there was head straight upstairs to raid my jewelry box. There was at least one piece of jewelry in there that I knew could bring in some cash. I shifted the contents from side to side until I found what I was looking for. The white gold ring glittered up at me from its resting place at the bottom. I plucked it up and as I did so, the sunlight bounced off the diamond's facets, projecting a myriad of rainbows on the wall next to the dresser.

Ben must have spent at least five-thousand dollars on this ring. The center diamond in the engagement ring alone was around three karats. Two smaller diamonds flanked it on either side, and the wedding band sparkled with tiny diamonds that went all the way around. Overly extravagant rings had been all the rage at the time he proposed, and Ben had spared no expense in making sure my wedding ring had followed that trend.

I wasn't sure what other ex-wives did with their rings following their divorces, but I hadn't been able to part with mine. There were too many good memories associated with this ring and my marriage and getting rid of it had felt like I was just throwing all that history away. And so, against the better judgment of my friends, I'd held on to it.

I closed my fist around my ring and brought it to my chest, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as I thought about how much Ben's actions had changed everything. Deep down I knew I shouldn't have been pining over Ben. He didn't deserve it. He'd made his choice and I had to accept that he wasn't coming back. But that didn't change the fact that I still was.

A thought suddenly occurred to me. What if the Phantom was doing the same thing? It was entirely possible that the unassuming gold band I now wore was all he had left of Christine. He was bound to have some memories associated with it, and like mine, they were probably both good and bad.

In that moment, in spite of everything he'd put me through, my heart softened, and I felt sorry for him. Just a little bit. Not enough to wait the next six months out, though.

I shoved my wedding ring in the pocket of my jeans and went downstairs to rummage through the boxes in my office. Maybe there was something else in one of them that could net me some more money.

I was lifting boxes back and forth when I came across a particular heavy one. Curious, I pulled back the flaps and peered inside. It was completely filled with stuff wrapped in ancient yellowed newspapers. I picked up the object resting at the top and slowly unwrapped it.

My mother's heirloom china. I'd forgotten I had this.

She had been so proud of the delicate white and blue china. It seemed like every Thanksgiving dinner she'd pull the ornate plates and cups out of the cabinet and tell me about how it had been passed from mother to daughter for five generations. A quick mental estimate of the ages of all the women on my mom's side of the family placed the china somewhere around the 1860s.

Mom would probably roll over in her grave if she knew what I was contemplating, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, I'd rather be haunted by members of my own family who were pissed at me for selling off an heirloom than the Opera Ghost.

With that newfound resolve I hefted the box out to my Jeep and drove to the nearest pawn shop.

It was quiet and relatively empty when I walked into Harry's Pawn. One or two customers meandered through the aisles of used power tools and television equipment that looked like it had been there since the early nineties. A line of hanging acoustic and electric guitars and bases circled the perimeter of the shop, while all sorts of recreational equipment—everything from skis to kayaks to tennis rackets and baseball bats—were propped up against the walls underneath them. The gray carpet was stained and so worn out in some places that you could see the cement floor underneath, and everything inside the shop was coated with a layer of dust and grime so thick that I suspected it had been there for years.

I muscled the box of china up to the front and set it on the counter. To either side of me sat glass display cases filled with jewelry, cameras, car stereos, cell phones and computer tablets, and dozens of different types of handguns.

"What can I do for you?" asked a haggard-looking older gentleman. Harry, I presumed. He looked about as well-taken care of as the shop. He was sporting a classic comb over, and what little was left of his hair was gray and greasy. When he spoke, I noticed the gaping holes in his mouth where some of his teeth used to be, and the white hair in the two-day old salt and pepper stubble on his chin glittered when it caught the light. But he had kind blue eyes and a warm smile that instantly put me at ease.

I pulled the ring from my pocket. "I wanted to see what you would give me for this," I said. Tapping the box, I added, "And this."

"Woo-ee!" he exclaimed. "That's quite a sparkler. Lemme see that."

I handed it to him. He took out one of those magnifying glasses that went over one eye—the kind I'd seen jewelers use on occasion when they inspected my ring—and angled the ring over back and forth as he examined it.

"Very nice," Harry drawled, handing it back to me. "Definitely an upgrade to the one you're wearing," he said, jutting his chin out at my left hand. "How come you selling it? It ain't stolen, is it?"

"No, it's not stolen!"

The nerve of this guy!

"Good. 'Cause we got a policy here. I don't take in no stolen items, ya hear?"

"It's not stolen," I repeated heatedly. "It was from my previous marriage." I held up my hand. "My new husband was uncomfortable with me keeping it around the house, so I thought I would see how much I could sell it for."

"Oh. Well, then, that makes sense. We men don't like to be reminded of our competition. Especially since it looks like your new guy is a cheapskate compared to the old one. Plus, having an old ring around like that probably makes him think about the man who had free access to you before we came along, if ya catch my meanin'," he cackled.

Jesus H. Christ. Maybe coming here was a mistake.

"How much?"

"Erm… uh, yeah. I can give you about nine hundred dollars."

"Nine hundred dollars?" I shot back. "That's _it_? That's a five-thousand-dollar ring!"

"And I got about ninety more of 'em jus' like it sittin' right there." He pointed to the case of engagement rings and wedding bands to my left.

I sighed and rubbed the bridge of my nose. "What about the china?"

"China?" Pointing to the box, he said, "Is that what's in here?"

He pried open the flaps and pulled out the same plate I had examined earlier.

"It dates back to the Civil War era," I offered, hoping that knowing its age might increase the price he was willing to give me.

Harry shook his head and stuck the plate back in the box. "You want money outta this you gotta take it to an antique shop. I can't sell this shit in here. Aside from sentimental value, it ain't worth dick."

"Seriously?" I said, irritation slowly creeping into my tone.

"'Fraid so."

I closed the box, weaving the flaps together so that it acted as a makeshift lid and the contents wouldn't fall out.

I think Harry could tell I wasn't happy, because he suggested, "You could always try the classifieds."

"Thanks," I grumbled.

Picking up the box, I turned to leave.

"Wait! What about the ring?"

I hesitated. Nine hundred dollars was more than I had when I first walked in here. And it got me a hell of a lot closer to the eighteen hundred I needed. With it, I was probably looking around three months of saving rather than six. But I just couldn't do it. I couldn't let it go for so little. Not only was he blatantly ripping me off, it still meant more to me than a plane ticket to Paris.

"No thanks. I'll think I'll keep it."

My phone went off as I was setting the box of china back in the office where I'd found it. Dusting off my hands, I pulled it out of my back pocket and glanced at the face. It was Rochelle.

 _R: Just finished a very successful exhibit and I feel like celebrating. Drinks tonight?_

Maddie's text came in almost immediately.

 _M: Sure._

I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment. I could use a night out away from this house.

 _C: I'm down_. _But I've been hitting the alcohol pretty heavily lately. Think we could go somewhere that also has good food instead of just drinks?_

 _R: Oh definitely. I'm STARVING!_

 _M: We could go to O'Malley's. As far as pub food, I've heard they're the best._

 _C: Works for me._

 _R: Great. Meet there at 7pm?_

We all agreed, and I slid my phone back into my pocket.

Now all I had to do was keep myself occupied until then.

* * *

Do not despair, gentle readers. Erik makes an appearance in the next chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

First things first! This chapter and chapter 8 were posted together, so if you haven't read chapter 8 yet, go back and read it.

As promised, Erik.

(grins evilly)

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

O'Malley's was a quaint little Irish pub located in the heart of downtown. The place was set up much like a restaurant, with booths lining the sides of three of the walls and small two-to-four-person tables scattered throughout the middle. A giant mahogany bar ran the length of the north wall and three pool tables were situated at the rear of the room. A large group of people were gathered around one table in particular, seemingly to cheer the players on. Occasionally, the relatively quiet atmosphere was broken by either a loud shout or groan, depending on the outcome of the shot being taken.

The pub was well-lit, its cream, wood-trimmed walls decorated with a variety of pictures and tins that instantly made the place feel homey and welcoming.

I spotted Maddie and Rochelle sitting side-by-side in a large booth directly opposite the bar. Rochelle waved me over.

"Hey, Chris," she said as I slid into the bench across from them.

"Hello, ladies," I greeted. Looking at Rochelle, I added, "Congrats on the successful exhibit."

"Thanks!"

A server appeared at our table, as if she'd been watching from the wings and waiting for just the right chance to swoop in.

"Whatcha gals drinking tonight?" she asked, pulling out her notebook.

"I'll have a white wine spritzer," Maddie said.

Rochelle held up her finger. "Vodka and cranberry juice, please."

The server turned to me expectantly.

"Umm…Bud Light."

"From the tap or in the bottle?"

"Bottle, please."

"Okay." She flipped her notebook closed and stuck her pen back in her ponytail. "I'll have those out in a jiffy."

Maddie and Rochelle just started at me, their mouths slightly agape.

I raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Budweiser?" Maddie asked incredulously. "Since when do you drink beer?"

"I'm hungry. It goes better with fries. Shit!" I slapped my hand down on the table in dismay. "Don't let me forget to order food when she comes back!"

Maddie just smiled and shook her head. "Whatever you say."

"New outfit?" I asked Rochelle, artfully changing the subject.

She tugged at the lapel of her OD green motorcycle jacket. The color contrasted nicely with her black shirt and black skinny jeans. For a finishing touch she had added a silver and gold chain necklace. "Yeah! I got it just for tonight."

"It's super cute," Maddie complimented.

"Definitely," I agreed.

"Talk about super cute," Rochelle said to Maddie, "I love your outfit. You always look so put together."

That was an understatement. Maddie always looked like she had just come off a photo shoot. Working at a clothing retailer certainly had its benefits. Today she had chosen a mauve button-down blouse with ruffles at the sleeves. The portion than ran along her collarbone and around to her back was made out of delicate sheer lace in the same color. Her white capris were starched and ironed so that a crisp crease ran down the middle, and I don't know where she always found shoes that matched whatever outfit she was wearing, but this time she had on white wedge sandals with silver, white, and pink gemstones. A pair of silver hoop earrings and a white wrist cuff topped everything off.

"Summer clearance," Maddie said proudly.

At that moment the server returned with our drinks and the next few seconds passed by in relative silence as she set them down in front of us.

"Can I get you ladies anything else?"

"Umm…yes." I picked up the menu. "I would like the buffalo wings and steak fries."

"Got it. Anyone else?"

"I'll do your cold turkey and avocado sandwich with the cream of potato soup," Rochelle ordered.

"The house salad with ranch on the side for me," Maddie said.

She disappeared, leaving the three of us alone once more.

"So, how did the exhibit go?" I asked.

"Ugh." Rochelle rolled her eyes. "Are you familiar with the term 'bridezilla?'"

I made a confused face. "Yes…."

"Well, this artist was the bridezilla of the art world, I swear. She hated the way we had her work displayed, and no sooner had we rearranged it more to her liking, 'inspiration' would strike her, and she'd make us do it all over again. I mean, I get that artists are creative and have a certain vision for their stuff, but after the third time I was ready to clobber her."

Maddie scowled. "You have more patience than I do. But I guess that's why I don't deal directly with people."

A loud cheer rose up from the group of people huddled around the pool tables, momentarily stealing my attention. I glanced over at them at the same time the guy holding the pool cue straightened up with a satisfied smirk on his face. He had dark, almost black hair that he kept buzzed short, and an equally dark goatee framed his mouth and chin. He stepped back, shifting his gaze as he did so, and our eyes briefly met. A warm sensation tingled in the pit of my stomach as he smiled at me before turning his attention back to the game at hand.

"Chris! Yoo-hoo! Did you hear me?"

"Sorry. What?" I looked back to Rochelle, who was staring back at me quizzically.

"I said, how is your ghost problem? What were you staring at?" She twisted around in her seat to see if she could see what had captured my attention.

I blushed. "Just a guy over there."

"Go over there and introduce yourself!" Maddie cut in immediately.

"What? No!" Just the thought of that made the palms of my hands slick with sweat. I secretly wiped them off on my jeans under the table.

"Why not?" she countered. "You're not going over there to ask him to marry you. Just smile, brush your hair back, and tell him your name."

"I don't know…."

"C'mon, Chris! You can do it," Rochelle encouraged.

"Honey, you have to move on. Ben did. So why shouldn't you?"

I was saved from having to answer by the arrival of our food. If they bugged me any more about it, I could just use the excuse that I didn't want my food to get cold.

The conversation took a more mundane turn as the three of us busied ourselves with eating.

The buffalo wings weren't the best I'd ever had but the steak fries were freaking amazing. They had just the right amount of salt and the spicy seasoning gave it a nice kick. Before I knew it, I had polished off all of them plus most of my beer.

"Look! He's going to the bar!" Maddie whispered furtively. She picked up my empty beer bottle and shoved it at me. "Here. Go get another one."

God, she was relentless.

"Hurry!"

I shot her a look of pure loathing and got up with an aggravated sigh. I might as well give it a try. Maybe then they'd leave me alone.

I wasted a few seconds smoothing the wrinkles out of my shirt. At least I had made an effort to get dressed up tonight. I was wearing a black fluttery blouse with peekaboo cutouts on the back and dark blue leggings tucked into black calf-high high-heeled boots. A long silver knotted necklace and dangly earrings that were about an inch longer than my hair broke up the monotony of black.

I sauntered up to the bar, trying to look both sexy and nonchalant at the same time, and skillfully slipped into the empty space next to him.

"Can I get another beer, please?" I asked the bartender, wiggling the bottle back and forth.

"Sure," the bartender replied. He grabbed a bottle of Bud Light out of a little fridge behind the bar, popped the cap off using the bottle opener attached to the counter, and handed it to me.

"Thanks." Holding it in my right hand, I angled myself toward the mystery guy. "Sounds like it's getting really intense over there."

He angled his head around to look at me. "Heh. I was so sure I had that win in the bag," he laughed. "And then I got cocky and scratched on the eight-ball. So now I owe everybody drinks."

"Damn. That's too bad."

He shrugged, fixing me with another one of those heart-fluttering smiles.

"I'm Chris," I said. Taking Maddie's flirting advice, I brushed my hair away from my forehead with my left hand.

"I'm…," his eyes fell to my fingers and his facial expression hardened. "Not interested."

"What?" My brain screeched to a grinding halt as I tried to wrap my head around what had just happened.

"I'm not in to cheaters," he sneered, flicking his gaze to the ring that adorned my finger. "So, don't even bother."

And with that, he pivoted around and went to join the rest of his buddies, leaving me standing there alone at the bar, mouth hanging open like an idiot.

He didn't even give me a chance to explain myself.

His rejection stung, probably more that it should have. But, seeing as I had been on the other end, where I was the one being cheated on, his comment flippant comment struck a nerve.

I swallowed, fighting back tears of frustration and humiliation. I was not going to cry. Not here.

"What happened?" Maddie exclaimed when I finally made it back to our table.

"He had a girlfriend," I lied, setting my untouched beer on the table. "I think I'm going to call it a night."

Rochelle pouted. "Awww. Already?"

"Yeah. It's been a crazy week and I'm exhausted."

"Okay…."

When I was done paying my tab, they both stood up and gave me a hug. Then I gathered my purse and car keys, waved goodbye, and headed out to my Jeep.

I lost it as soon as I climbed behind the wheel and shut the door. I'd never even considered what people might think seeing a gold band on my finger. Was I now doomed forever, unable to date anyone as long as it was stuck? Why did it seem like I was continually being punished?

The weight of the day came crashing down on my shoulders and by the time I pulled into the driveway, the tears were streaming freely down my cheeks. The sight of the dark house looming in front of me made me cry even harder. I'd tried everything I could think of to try to get to Paris and finally be rid of the ghost. I'd even tried to hock my family's heirloom china, for hell's sake! I had to do something. This was disrupting my life and I couldn't continue to live like this!

Tossing my bag carelessly on the couch, I stomped through the front room and into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead light. I knew I had a pair of wire cutters somewhere on the table. It didn't take me long to find them. Wiping the tears away from my eyes in order to clear my vision, I wedged the pliers underneath the wedding band and squeezed the handle.

What happened next was a blur. A black gloved hand came out of nowhere and reached for my wrist. I felt a burst of cold air as the ghost tried to clamp down on my hand, but his fingers just went right through me. He tried again, and this time managed to make contact with the pliers, knocking them out of my grasp. They flew across the room and clattered to the ground in front of the sink.

" _What are you doing?!_ " he cried.

"I can't take it anymore!" I shouted. "Having to lie to everybody, people always questioning why I'm suddenly wearing a wedding ring. Then, on top of all that, I come home every night to stifling feelings of barely repressed anger, where I have to constantly deal with your shit, and I never know if I'm safe or if you're going to lose your temper at any given moment and attack me!" I choked back a sob. "Can't you see I'm desperate?!"

He seemed to shrink right before my very eyes. His shoulders slumped as he tore his burning gaze away from me and fixed it at a random point on the floor beside me. For a ghost, his mannerisms were surprisingly real and human. If it wasn't for the fact that I could see right through him, I would have honestly thought I was talking to a living person.

"I…forgive me," the ghost sighed, curling his long, delicate fingers into a fist that he then brought close to his chest. "My behavior has been…truly inexcusable."

My mouth fell open. The sound that emanated from him was almost as contradictory as the words he'd just said, given his menacing countenance. His voice was soft and light…almost lyrical, if that were possible. The pleasing cadence with which he spoke was captivating, and suddenly, despite the scariness of the situation, all I wanted was to hear him say something else.

Dimly I became aware that I was gaping at him like a dead fish. Licking my lips, I did the only thing that jumped to my mind: I accepted his unexpected apology by offering one of my own.

"I'm sorry I tried to cut off your ring. It's been a rough day—a rough week, and I wasn't thinking clearly. This isn't a normal thing for me, you know; I've never been able to see or talk to ghosts before. I'm still not sure why I suddenly can."

"Nor I," the Phantom said. "My interactions with the living thus far have been nothing more than a few shadows and disembodied sounds here and there."

I ran my fingers around the smooth band as I contemplated what he'd said. "It seems this ring is significant in more ways than one." I hesitated. "It means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

He nodded slowly.

I took a deep breath. I didn't know what mysterious forces were at work here, but deep down I knew that this was it. We had come to a crossroads, a turning point in our strange relationship. If I really did have the power to help him, if his only hope to pass on to the next plane of existence really did rest on my shoulders, then I couldn't, in good conscience, turn my back on him.

"I never meant to cause all this trouble," I said softly, for probably the hundredth time. "I really did have good intentions."

He watched me, silently following my movements as I walked to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of white zinfandel. It was weird having someone else in the kitchen with me. I mean, did I offer him something? What was the etiquette when it came to spirits? I was halfway to the drawer where I kept the corkscrew when I stopped. I didn't want any more alcohol. If we were finally going to talk—and every indication told me we were, since he hadn't disappeared yet—then I wanted my mind clear.

I set the unopened bottle on the portion of finished countertop and turned to grab the coffee carafe off the kitchen table instead. I had a feeling it was going to be a long night. As I waited for it to fill with water, I attempted to dispel the awkward lull between us with small talk.

"I think I may have come up with a solution, though," I said quietly, pouring the water from the carafe into the coffee maker's reservoir. "I'm pretty sure that my taking the ring from the cellars is what trapped you here with me. So, putting it back where I found it should release you and allow you to move on, right?" Easy in theory, harder to execute. I bit into my bottom lip and punched the 'on' button. "The only problem is, I'm broke as hell and I can't afford to fly back to Paris right now. I've spent all day, beating my head against the wall, trying to come up with a way to get that extra money, and I'm so…so…frustrated! I've literally gotten nowhere. In the meantime, here you are, pulled out of your eternal rest and stuck in some sort of weird limbo because of me, and I have a way to set things right and I can't and…and why are you pacing like that?"

While I rambled on like an idiot, he had begun to walk back and forth in the small space between the fridge and table. It was an unsettling sight to behold. Raw energy radiated from him with every turn. It was like watching a tiger pace the confines of its cage. A dangerous, intelligent, calculating predator waiting for just the right opportunity to pounce on the unsuspecting zookeeper. I'd never felt anything like it.

An involuntary shiver worked its way up my spine.

"What's wrong?

I had to do something to pull him out of his downward spiral before things got out of hand. I couldn't take another angry outburst. Last night was still too fresh in my mind.

"E-Erik?"

He stopped mid-step, his head rearing up at the sound of his name, a look of incredulity and something else I couldn't readily identify playing across his piercing yellow eyes. He was quiet for a few moments, and then, in another surprisingly alive, human gesture he slid a hand over his dark hair and let out a resigned sigh.

"Your removing the ring from the opera house may have brought me here with you, but my spirit was trapped long before you came along," he revealed.

"What?" My forehead creased into a frown of confusion. "So…you're telling me that you've been trapped inside the opera house since…?"

"Since I died."

My mind reeled. I couldn't wrap my head around what he was saying. Since he died. That was back in 1881.

"You've been confined to the opera house for a hundred and thirty-seven years?"

"Yes."

"Jesus," I whispered. He hadn't responded well to any of my other attempts to pry into his past, but I had to try. Otherwise, nothing would change, and we'd just keep repeating this cycle over and over again until I finally lost my mind. "Why?"

He grew quiet, his eyes momentarily flicking to the ring on my finger.

"Erik, why? What happened?"

"I'd rather not elaborate," Erik replied, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

I folded my arms to match his stance. "That's not an answer!" Lifting one hand, I pointed my index finger at him. "You're dodging the question."

"A question I do not feel like answering at the moment."

It figured that I would get stuck with a reluctant ghost.

Danica's cryptic words echoed in my ears.

 _I believe you were meant to find that ring, Christine. Talk to him. Find a way to help him._

"Why are you being difficult? You were there in that room when I talked to the medium. Don't even try to deny it. You heard what she said. How in the hell am I supposed to find a way to help you move on if you don't talk to me?"

"As noble and selfless as your intentions are," he said derisively, taking one deliberate step toward me, and then another until he had closed the distance between us. Forced to retreat, I backed away until my hips hit the counter and I couldn't go any further. "I do not want or need your help. I suggest you let the matter drop."

"Oh-oh yeah?" I fired back. I hated that he had the ability talk to me like a perfect gentleman one moment and then do something that freaked me out to the point that my voice wavered the next moment. I decided right then and there that I was done. This was _my_ house, _my_ life, and I _refused_ to let him intimidate me anymore. Gripping the edge of the countertop behind me for courage, I narrowed my eyes haughtily and spat, "If that's the case, then go back to the opera house."

* * *

BAM! I'm pretty sure that if Chris had been holding a mic, she would have dropped it at the end there. But can you seriously blame her? She's been on an emotional rollercoaster all day (all week!), thinking about selling her possessions, getting rejected by a cute guy at the bar. And Erik's mood swings are not helping! How do you think Erik's going to handle being challenged like that? I'd love to hear from you.

~J


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** I'm baaaack! First, I just have to say that the support in this phandom is AMAZING! I'm so glad to be a part of it, and for all the wonderful friends I've made while writing for this community! In the months since I last updated I have created a Tumblr account. You can find me over there as jamiepage19. Swing by and say "hi." I'd love to chat.

As always, please let me know what you think! Thanks, everyone!

~Jamie

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

I staggered back as though she had just delivered a slap to my masked cheek. She may as well have, for all the force behind her words.

She straightened up, her courage growing by the second as I attempted to grapple with the sudden shift in our dynamic. She quietly folded her arms across her chest again, a smug smile of satisfaction settling over her delicate features.

"I see I've made my point," she said, her eyes flashing triumphantly. For once, I didn't have the upper hand, and somehow, she knew it.

Who _was_ this woman? I had grown quite accustomed to people capitulating to my demands when I chose to exercise my power. Even the Daroga, with his quiet albeit constant meddling in my affairs, had never dared question my logic or said anything that openly contradicted me.

And yet, this tiny wisp of a woman had the audacity to challenge me by blatantly calling my bluff. It was something that I was altogether unused to, and as such, I was at a complete loss as to how to respond.

"Listen," she ventured, taking advantage of my stunned silence, "I'm not one of those people who usually believes in Fate, but c'mon. Think about it. All of those people coming in and out of the cellars over the past hundred years, and no one else spotted it and grabbed it before I did? Then after I pick it up and put it on, you suddenly appear in my house and I can see and talk to you when no one else has been able to do that? I don't think that's a coincidence."

"Has it ever occurred to you that it had simply been buried in lake sediment and the constant tour traffic eventually brought it back to the surface?" I countered caustically.

"Maybe." She brushed off my tone as carelessly as she might flick drops of water from her coat. Arms still crossed, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Or maybe I'd have a better understanding of the whole situation if I knew how the ring had been buried there in the first place."

Such an innocent, unassuming question, one that she had asked on several occasions now. Every time she brought it up, I had managed to cleverly create a diversion so that I would not be forced to answer her. She did not know what she asked of me. She couldn't possibly know that I had been carefully avoiding those memories for the better part of a century.

 _My eyes lingered on the open doorway through which Christine had just exited, her figure quickly enveloped by the darkness that surrounded the underground lake. I could not remain there, for I was afraid that the gentle lapping sounds of the Vicomte rowing her across the lake would surely rend me in two._

 _I retreated to the parlor, where the massive pipe organ waited to comfort me. Music had always been there when everyone else had turned away. I lunged for the keyboard, channeling all my sorrow into song. An awful sound accompanied the first few chords. It reverberated around the room, bouncing off the walls, and as it ricocheted back to my ears, I realized with grim dismay that there wasn't anything wrong with the organ, as I had first suspected. No, the sounds were coming from me._

 _I immediately stopped playing, my hands trembling as they hovered above the keys. Curling them to my chest, I surrendered to my grief, rocking back and forth as her name repeatedly fell from my lips in a broken whisper._

 _Christine! Oh, Christine! This was not how it was supposed to end._

 _An unexpected movement behind me caught my attention. I leapt off the piano bench and spun around, ready to kill whomever dared to interrupt and spy on such a private moment of anguish._

 _My angel stood in the doorway, fresh tears coursing down her pale cheeks, marring her otherwise perfect visage. A quick glance over her shoulder told me she was alone. Where was the boy? My heart, which had been so close to shattering only moments before, suddenly surged with renewed hope._

" _Christine," I whispered hoarsely. "You came back."_

 _Cautiously, I took a step toward her and extended my hand._

" _I-I can't—" she stammered, eyeing my outstretched hand._

" _Shh…." Advancing slowly, I walked toward her until I was close enough to rest my palms on her arms, just below each of her shoulders. "Don't cry, Christine. You know what that does to me. You know it breaks my heart to see your tears."_

 _I moved to tenderly wipe one of the glistening teardrops from her cheek with my thumb._

" _N-no!" Christine cried, wrenching herself out of my grasp. "I can't… I can't keep this!"_

 _She seized my right hand and pushed something into my palm. Confused, I glanced down. The gold ring sparkled in the low candlelight, shiny and vibrant against the black leather of my glove._

" _I can't come back. I-I won't!" She shook her head resolutely, her brown curls bouncing with the slight movement. "I need to put all this behind me. I'm sorry, Erik."_

"Erik?"

I blinked, shaking the last vestiges of the memory from my vision.

"What the hell just happened?" she asked.

This was all too much. I didn't want to dredge up my past. Especially with a strange woman I barely knew. At that moment, all I wanted was to be anywhere else.

XXX

"Wait! Don't go!"

One moment he was standing right in front of me and then the next thing I knew, he was gone.

He had gotten this strange, smoldering look in his eyes right before a violent tremor swept through the kitchen. It seemed to emanate from where he was standing and spread out from there, shaking the appliances on the table and rattling the cupboard doors against the cabinets.

He obviously knew something—something that might even shed some light on our current dilemma, but for some reason he was unwilling to share.

And that infuriated me.

"God damn it! You can't just disappear every time I ask something that you don't want to answer!" I shouted to the empty kitchen, stomping my foot in frustration. "We're never going to get anywhere if you keep doing that!"

The air around me stilled and everything had gone quiet.

I was too tired and overwhelmed with everything that had just happened to want to push him any farther. He'd won. For now.

"Whatever," I growled, swiping the light off as I stormed my way out of the kitchen. "I'm going to bed."

XXX

I'm not sure what pissed me off more: that I'd been shown-up by a ghost or that I'd wasted a whole pot of coffee. Probably the latter. That shit was expensive.

As for Erik, I steadfastly refused to play into his game. If he wanted to act like a petulant child and avoid the situation, that was fine by me. I wasn't going to force him to talk by needling him with questions if I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere.

And so, I was hardly surprised when I got up Sunday morning and the house was completely silent. I went about my business with quiet determination. An hour passed. Then two. By mid-afternoon I had done my laundry and picked up the tree limbs that had been scattered about the yard during the storm earlier that week. Then I worked on laying some more tile down on my countertop until the shadows chased the sun away and my body grew heavy with fatigue from all that I had put it through that day. All the while the house felt perfectly normal and comfortable. There was no indication at all that a temperamental spirit lurked within its walls.

Unfortunately, his continued silence wasn't going to make our strange predicament go away. We could ignore each other all we wanted but doing so wasn't going to fix things. And since I wasn't keen on putting up with his mood swings and violent outbursts the rest of my life, I was most likely going to have to piece this puzzle together on my own.

So, the next day I took a detour on my way home from work and swung by Walmart, where I picked up a giant pad of poster paper, a set of markers, and some packing tape. When I got home, I brought all the supplies into the dining room-slash-office, dumped them on the floor by the wall, and went to make myself something for dinner. Five minutes later I returned with a ham and cheese sandwich and a tall glass of ice water.

Setting the plate down on the lid of my laptop, I picked up the pad of paper and ripped out a blank page. Then I grabbed the tape and walked over to the large empty wall in front of me. After I'd secured the page to the wall, I repeated the process three more times until I had created a large square. Pausing to take a bite out of my sandwich, I stood there for a moment and contemplated my next move.

Still chewing, I reached over and grabbed the black marker from the package. Uncapping it, I wrote "facts" on the left side and underlined it. Then, on the right side, I wrote "theories" and underlined that.

All right. I had the basics. That was a good start. Now, what did I know?

Well, the Phantom of the Opera was real. I added that to the "facts" column. I also knew that Erik had given the ring to Christine, and that, according to the book, she was supposed to come back and bury it with him. I wrote those both of those facts down, too.

I stopped. If Christine had come back and fulfilled her promise, wouldn't that have potentially given Erik the reason he needed to pass on? What unfinished business would have compelled him to stay?

Frowning, I tapped the edge of marker against my bottom lip. What if she hadn't come back? That might have caused him to linger in this world. I hurried and scribbled that down on "theories" side.

"I don't know…." I pondered to myself. "If she never came back, then how did the ring get back to the opera house?"

Something wasn't adding up.

I thought back to Saturday night and Erik's annoying habit of disappearing whenever I tried to delve deeper into his life. Although he wasn't really all that pleasant to be around to begin with, it seemed like he got especially prickly when I specifically mentioned Christine and the ring together. My eyes wandered over to the theory side of the paper. What if…what if she not only refused to come back, but had refused to take the ring from him in the first place? I circled my earlier theory and then added "refused to take ring" to the list.

Then again, maybe she did take it, but it slipped from her hands or skirts as she was leaving. That was believable. After all, I had originally thought that someone had lost it during a tour of the cellars.

I let out an aggravated sigh and wrote those ideas down as well. The shitty part of all this was that I really had no way of knowing what was going through Christine's head at the time. All I could do was speculate. I didn't even know if what was written in the book had actually transpired or if the author was just embellishing some of the details to make the story more entertaining. And until Erik felt like telling me the truth, I was left to come up with my own explanations.

"You know," I grumbled out loud, "you could make this a whole lot easier if you'd just come out and talk to me like an adult."

And of course, the only answer I got was silence.

XXX

The next two weeks passed by uneventfully. By the end of the second week I was starting to wonder if Erik actually ad called my bluff and returned to the opera house. Maybe Danica had been wrong about the whole being trapped here thing and he could really leave whenever he wanted. Maybe once he found out the ring wasn't coming off my finger, he'd decided there was no point in sticking around. I couldn't say I blamed him; it's not like we were friends. Hell, we barely tolerated each other. At least this way he wouldn't bug me during the months it would take me to save the money needed to fly back to Paris. I just hoped that did the trick and I would be rid of both him and the ring once I got there.

I had just finished grocery shopping one night after work and was one my way to shut the front door after stashing dozens of frozen TV dinners into the freezer when a flash of black teased the corner of my peripheral vision.

The little hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I froze, suddenly very aware of the feeling of dread that had settled into the pit of my stomach. Taking a step backward, I twisted around and slowly peeked through the doorway of the formal dining room. The Phantom was standing in front of the wall, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he gazed at the sheets of paper I'd taped up there.

"You came back," I stated flatly.

He angled his head to the side at the sound of my voice but said nothing.

I entered the room, inching my way closer to where he stood. "I haven't seen or heard from you in a while. I was starting to think you were gone for good."

The hard line of his lower jaw tightened as he returned his focus back to the wall.

His continued reticence was making me antsy.

I followed his gaze, blushing slightly as I realized he was reading everything I'd written down. "You're probably wondering what all this is. Well, I had to do _something_ ," I blurted before I could think better of it. "You haven't exactly been willing to help me."

"You're very perceptive."

"Yeah, no shit. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out when you disappear the minute I start talking about something you don't like."

He glanced at me then, his amber eyes flickering briefly with amusement, before he motioned back to the wall with his head. "I meant what you wrote here."

"Oh."

 _Way to go, Chris. He comes back and may have even been willing to talk to you, and you have to go and screw it up by insulting him. Nice job. Don't ever try hostage negotiation, okay? You'd suck at it._

"I was just guessing," I hastily explained, scrambling to salvage the moment. "Why? How close am I to the truth?"

"Closer than you know."

His words lingered heavily in the air between us. Several seconds passed by while I waited for him to elaborate, but it seemed that he had said all he was going to say.

Once again, frustration overrode every other logical emotion and boiled to the surface.

"Are you always this cryptic?" I snapped.

"Are you always this intrusive?"

"Stop answering my question with a question! God! If avoiding a topic was a contest, you'd take first fucking place. I know what you're doing and it's not going to work."

"You do not know anything," he snarled. "Because if you did, then you would know that I am not a man who likes to be trifled with."

I blinked in surprise, heat flaring to my face. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"

 _You're poking a bear, Christine,_ my inner voice cautioned. _Back off and walk away._

Unfortunately, my temper was a lot stronger than my common sense.

"All I've wanted to do this entire time is help you, and you have the nerve to threaten me?" I raged.

"I never asked for your help," he said, a low note of warning creeping into his voice. "I had thought I made that clear the other night."

"Ugh! You know what? I don't care anymore!" I cried, throwing my hands up in the air. "Playing therapist to a guy who's been dead for a hundred and forty years wasn't on my list of shit to do today. So, either tell me what happened or don't. But if you choose not to, then you're not gonna skulk around here feeling sorry for yourself and making my life a living hell because of it! Do you understand? So, make a goddamn choice!"

There was a heartbeat of silence, and then, at the exact same moment he shot me a look of pure venom, a gust of wind tore through the dining room, ripping three of the papers off the wall. The computer desk next to me wobbled and tipped over, sending my laptop spinning across the hardwood floor on its lid just as the window closest to us shattered into a million pieces.

I yelped and crouched into a ball, covering my face with my arms.

After what felt like a lifetime but was really only seconds, I lowered my arms and raised my head to survey the damage.

I was prepared for the gaping window and the tiny chunks of glass all over the floor, but I was not expecting the Phantom's reaction. Erik, obviously forgetting that objects could go right through him, had positioned himself over me, using his body to shield me from the shards of flying glass.

He straightened up and I stood up slowly, both of us turning to take in the scene of devastation around us.

He'd broken things before: the candle, the tile, all of the lightbulbs in the front room. But I'd always assumed he'd done it on purpose to scare me away from the subject at hand. However, this time his actions told a different story. It may have just been a knee-jerk reaction to him, but he'd been trying to protect me nonetheless. Which meant he had been just as surprised about what happened as I was.

"Did you mean to do that?" I asked stupidly, for lack of anything better to say.

"No," he replied in a whisper, that golden gaze of his still trained on the sunlight now streaming in through the wide-open window. "I've never been able to do anything like this before…before now."

My eyes drifted back to the wall, where the paper with the words "refused to take ring" circled on it still remained taped to the decorative cherry wood wainscot.

At that moment I felt like the world's biggest asshole. I should have realized it sooner. All the clues where there. Maybe I already knew, but needed to hear it from him, anyway. So instead, I had stubbornly trudged along in my crusade for the truth, carelessly disregarding his feelings because I'd been so selfishly wrapped up with how his presence was impacting me.

"Erik?" I said hesitantly. I'd said his name in my mind dozens of times but saying it out loud still felt odd. "I think I owe you an apology."

His head swiveled toward me and his eyes narrowed in confusion, as though he couldn't quite understand what I'd just said. For a moment I was afraid he was going to disappear again, and this awful game of cat and mouse would start all over, going on indefinitely until I lost my mind. But he merely stared at me, his body tense as his curiosity waged war with his instinctive need to flee. And as I stood among the ruined remains of my formal dining room, a strange sensation settled over me.

I _wanted_ him to trust me.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** This one's a doozy. Please read and review!

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

"I'm sorry."

At first, the words didn't register. Then, once I realized what she was saying, I felt my shoulders tighten as I mentally prepared myself for the string of possible sentences that usually came after that statement. I had heard the phrase "I'm sorry" plenty of times in my life, but it was typically followed by "please let me go" or "I didn't mean it" or some other meaningless plea that I wasn't interested in hearing.

 _I need to put this behind me. I'm sorry, Erik._

Never once had I been on the receiving end of a sincere, heartfelt apology.

Until now.

"I've been so wrapped up with how inconvenient this is for me," she went on, unaware of my innermost thoughts, "that I haven't really stopped to think about what you must be going through, and how hard all this must be for you."

Her sudden interest for my well-being was completely foreign to me, and if I were being honest, it felt a little invasive. I wasn't used to anyone showing sympathy—unless it was with the intention to mock—and so, I responded the only way I knew how. With suspicion and hostility.

"Do not concern yourself with me," I hissed. "I have no need for your pity."

Her mouth dropped opened as her eyes grew wide, her eyebrows nearly jumping to meet her hairline.

"It's not pity to want to apologize to you for putting you in an uncomfortable position."

I began to counter her argument, but she held up her hand, immediately cutting me off.

"And before you come up with some lame-ass excuse to tell me that you weren't really that uncomfortable, I would like to direct your attention to Exhibit A," she continued, flinging her hand toward the broken window.

The shards of glass on the floor sparkled like tiny diamonds in the late-afternoon sunlight.

"But that's okay. I get it. It's obvious you don't want to talk about it. I'm not going to force you to tell me about it. I don't have the patience, the energy, or, quite frankly, the money to keep trying. However, I will say this: I'm offering to help you explore your feelings and maybe identify the reason why you haven't moved on in over a hundred years. If you're not interested, hey, that's fine, too. Just know that it will take me about six months—well, maybe a little longer now," she said, deliberately eyeing the window again, "to save up the money to go back to Paris. Hopefully that will do the trick and you can go back to whatever miserable existence you had there before I came along. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go figure out how in the hell I'm going to replace this window."

With that, she whirled around and exited the room, leaving me to stare after her in stupefied shock.

No one had ever dared to stand up to me before, and they certainly never had the nerve to point out that I wasn't making the best choices.

So why then, was I allowing it to happen now? And more importantly, why wasn't I upset about it?

XXX

The sound of filtered air humming through the HVAC system droned on above me, competing for rank against the tinny 70s classic rock that was blaring over the speakers at The Home Depot. Aisle 33 was currently empty, leaving me alone to glare at the price of replacement windows.

"Can I help you find something, ma'am?" a man in an orange apron said as he walked up to greet me.

"Yeah, I need to fix my window," I replied. "Something just shattered the glass. Is this all you have?"

I'm not really sure what I had been expecting, having never had to replace a pane of glass before, but I definitely hadn't counted on windows being this expensive. Maybe I'd get lucky and they would have something on clearance.

"So, it's just the glass you need to replace, not the whole unit?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Hmm. Unfortunately, we don't carry replacement panes."

"Can I special order it?"

"No. They're not something we stock. You'd have to contact a glass company for that."

"Oh." Damn it. "Do you know about how much they cost?"

"I don't. I'm sorry. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No. Thanks."

 _Son-of-a-bitch._ I didn't need this. Especially at the end of the day on a Friday. Most of the window places were already closed, and who knew if any of them would be open on the weekends. What was I supposed to do with the big ass gaping hole in the side of my house in the meantime? I was taking a big risk even leaving my house and coming here to look, considering that it was wide-open and anyone could just hop right in if they wanted to.

The answer hit me just as the guy was about to turn the corner.

"Wait!" I called after him. "Wood! Can I use wood to put in place of the glass until I can get it fixed?

He shrugged. "I don't see why not. If you've got the tools, I'm sure you could cut a piece of plywood down to the size and wedge it in there."

"Awesome. Thank you."

After tracking down one of those metal carts that were made for holding building materials like 2x4s and sheetrock, I made my way to the lumber section at the far end of the store. Another helpful associate assisted me with pulling a sheet of plywood from the stack and sliding it onto the cart. I thanked him and headed for the pro checkout line. Thank God I had a store credit card. Otherwise I didn't know what I would have done.

It wasn't until I wheeled the cart out to my Jeep that I realized I had a bigger problem. How the hell was I supposed to get this home? I guess I could always have one of the lot attendants help me tie it to the luggage rack on the roof. But how would I get it down? And then how would I muscle it into the house and into the dinning where I could cut it?

I could always call Maddie and Rochelle. The three of us together would probably be able to get it to where it needed to go.

Or….

Biting my bottom lip, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and unlocked it. I only hesitated for a millisecond before I scrolled through my contact list and found Ben's number.

He answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi," I said. "Are you busy?"

"Just helping Carly with the dinner dishes. Why?"

The muscles in my jaw tensed with jealousy. What the hell? He'd never been willing to help me with the dishes when we were married.

Making a mighty effort to swallow my resentment, I said, "I need a favor and I don't know who else to call."

That was a lie.

But, I reasoned with myself, it would be much better to have him help me than try to explain things to my two friends, both of whom had never done anything home-improvement-related in their lives.

"Everything okay?"

"No." The waver in my voice was real as I told him that I needed help boarding up a broken window.

"Where are you now?" he asked.

"The Home Depot. I've already bought the plywood, but I'll need help getting off the roof of my Jeep, and into the house and hung up."

"Okay. Head home and I'll meet you there in thirty minutes."

My heart surged, but whether it was from relief that my window problem would be temporarily solved or that I was going to see Ben, I didn't know.

XXX

He was leaning against the hood of his car, waiting for me, when I pulled into the driveway. My blood pressure kicked into high gear when I noticed he was wearing the ratty old Mötley Crüe t-shirt he always wore whenever he was working around the house.

He was planning to stay! He was going to help me cut and nail up the board, rather than just get it off my car and into the house. That meant I had at least forty-five minutes of uninterrupted time with him!

I slid out of the Jeep, trying to look as sexy as I could with my hair pulled back and still in my work scrubs.

"Hi," I said casually. "Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it."

"No problem." Ben pushed off the hood and turned around to lean through his open driver's side window. "Hey, babe. Did you want to come in with us or stay out here?"

My dreams for the evening, which had been soaring high above the Earth in a rocket ship of hope, crashed to the ground in fiery explosion of despair as Carly climbed out of the car and brushed the wrinkles out of her light-weight, OD green military-style jacket. The sunlight glistened against her long, naturally curly red hair, creating a halo effect as she gracefully swept it over her shoulders and out of the way.

I smoothed down the fly-aways of my stumpy ponytail, suddenly very self-conscious about my own appearance.

Carly's green eyes, which positively sparkled in conjunction with her jacket and brushed gold earrings, flicked to Ben with barely disguised annoyance.

"Is this going to take long?" she whined.

Well, least I considered it whining. That tone of voice was probably really seductive to Ben and the rest of the men on this planet. Carly struck me as the type of woman who used that tactic all the time to get people to do what she wanted. It had obviously worked on my husband, since he'd willingly flushed five years of marriage down the toilet so he could be with her.

Ben shook his head. "Nah. We just need to cut this board and put it up. Shouldn't take us long at all."

The woman I hated more than anything else in the world lifted her shoulder coyly and sighed dramatically. Then she ducked back into the car, grabbed her brown Coach handbag from the front seat, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She took one out and gestured toward the car before putting it between her lips.

"I'll stay out here," she pouted.

I scowled as the smell of stale smoke drifted past my nose and made a show of waving it away.

"Okay."

When he leaned over to kiss her my I dug my fingernails so hard into my palms I was sure I was going to draw blood.

"You ready, Chris?" Ben asked, motioning to the plywood strapped to my roof.

"What? Oh. Yeah."

We spent the next several minutes in working to loosen the straps and pull the sheet of plywood to the ground and into the house.

It felt strange including Ben in one of my work projects. When we lived together, the majority of our house had been finished and up to date. Aside from painting a room here and there, I never really had a chance to do any real home improvement work. Back then I'd always fantasized about starting some sort of remodeling project together, thinking about how awesome it would have been to do something with him that I enjoyed doing with my dad growing up. This was as close as I had ever gotten to that, and the bittersweet emotions that rose up in my chest as I realized that was almost enough to make me cry.

"Where do you want it?" he asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I glanced around, looking for a suitable spot.

"Let's lean it up against the wall here," I told him, angling my head toward the staircase. "Then I can go grab the saw and sawhorses from the shed out back and set them up in the dining room."

He nodded and together we crouched down and eased the sheet of plywood to the ground.

"Okay." I dusted my hands off. "I'll be right back."

"You need help?"

"Sure. That'll make things go a lot faster. Thanks."

I led him through the kitchen and out the back door. There was a small wooden shed at the far end of the yard where I stored all my power tools and miscellaneous building supplies. The musty smells of ancient wood, dirt, and motor oil greeted us when I unhooked the combination padlock and opened the door.

"Damn, Chris," he exclaimed, blowing out a low whistle. "When'd you get the mancave?"

A large Craftsman toolbox with pullout drawers sat on the bench attached to the wall in front of us. One of the previous owners had installed rows of wooden shelves on the left wall, and I had quickly filled them with my assortment of power tools. Most of them I had inherited from my dad, but I'd picked up a few shortly after I moved into this house, knowing that I would need them for my remodel. The table saw, along with shovels and rakes, the lawnmower and gas can, and a few bags of grass seed and fertilizer lined the wall to the right.

"Most guys would kill to have all this equipment," he went on, running his fingers idly over the drill, reciprocating saw, and the multi-tool that I had picked up when the set went on sale earlier in the summer.

 _Not all guys,_ I thought sullenly, casting a dark glance in his direction.

Instead of acknowledging his comment, I busied myself with locating a box of wood screws, a tape measure, and the impact driver and battery.

"Here," I said, handing them to him. "Hold these."

Then I turned back around and shuffled the sawhorses out from their hiding place behind the table saw. Scooping them up under one arm, I grabbed the circular saw off the shelf and motioned for him to follow me back to the house.

The days were steadily growing shorter, and by the time I had everything we needed, dusk had settled over the backyard. The bright, cheery sunlight had faded, bathing our surroundings in soft, muted colors as the impending darkness closed in around us.

Needless to say, the house was completely dark when we got back inside. I paused when I stepped into the kitchen, listening keenly for any signs that Erik might be near. I doubted I would see him in full form with Ben in the house, but I felt his presence nonetheless, and wondered if Ben had noticed the subtle shift in atmosphere.

He followed me into the dining room, where I set the tools down on the floor and then turned on the overhead light. Ben's gaze was immediately drawn to the open window and all the glass that was still scattered all over the floor.

"I didn't want to waste any time cleaning," I explained. The excuse sounded weak even to me. "What I mean is, I didn't want to risk the store closing or not having what I needed in stock and having to go somewhere else. I figured I could always clean later, once there wasn't an easy way into my house…."

I knew I was rambling, but I couldn't help it. The whole situation put me on edge, anyway, but having my ex-husband there, silently judging my housekeeping skills wasn't making it any easier.

"How did you say it broke?" he asked.

"I don't know. It was like that when I came home from work. I think one of the neighbor kids may have broken it," I lied.

"You didn't stop to think that maybe someone broke in? Did you check the house? Is anything missing? God damn, it, Christine! Did you call the police?"

Crap. I should have thought that story through a little more before I opened my mouth. Now I looked like an incompetent idiot to him.

I immediately back-pedaled. "Oh, no. No. No one broke in. I saw a group of boys running away from my house with a baseball bat and ball when I came home from work. I'm sure it was just an accident."

"Do you know them? You should talk to their parents. Windows are expensive."

 _No shit_.

"I plan to. Can we just fix the window now?" I snapped. His patronizing tone was starting to piss me off.

"Yeah."

"Thank you."

We stared at each other for a few moments, like children on the playground who had forgotten how to get along and no longer knew how to play nice. Things weren't always this tense between us, and I hated being reminded of how things had been in the last few months of our marriage.

"I'll go get the plywood."

"Do you need me to help?"

"No," he replied curtly. "I can manage it. You just get the sawhorses ready so I can set it down on top of them."

Great. Now he was butt hurt. This evening wasn't going how I planned at all.

Sighing loudly, I seized the sawhorses and walked to the middle of the room, where I pulled them open and set them down on the floor with more force than was necessary. I turned around to get the circular saw and froze. The last sheet of paper was still on the wall.

 _Shit, shit, shit!_

I dashed over to it and ripped it off the wall, quickly crinkling the paper into a ball.

Did he see it? What if he had. Would he think I was crazy? Was there even enough context there to make sense of anything? How in the world was I going to explain this one?

 _You don't,_ I told myself. _You throw it away and play it cool and act like nothing's up. Hurry, he's coming!_

I stuffed the ball of paper into one of the open boxes and straightened up, running my hand over the top of my head in an attempt to seem calm and relaxed. Ben appeared moments later, holding the plywood parallel to his body as he tried to maneuver it into the room. When he got closer, I helped him angle it and push the wood onto the saw horses.

For the next little bit, we were both absorbed in our task, only breaking the silence to relay measurements back and forth. He stood back and watched me work as the circular saw whirred to life and I carefully cut the board down to size. When I was done, Ben picked up the smaller piece and walked it to the window. After wedging into place, he told me to hold it there while he went back for the impact driver and wood screws.

Starting at the top left, I held the board steady as he screwed in several screws to hold the wood tight against the window frame. He had just finished screwing in the last screw when he tapped the tip of his index finger against the ring on my left hand.

"Where'd this come from?"

My stomach slid into my shoes.

"Ummm…it was Grandma's. I found it in one of those boxes over there while I was unpacking," I said, pointing to the stack shoved in the corner of the room.

Ben squinted. "Everything you took from the house was stuff you already had while we were married, and I know for a fact that this wasn't in your jewelry collection when we lived together. I would have definitely remembered this."

"Of course you don't remember seeing it in my collection," I bit back snarkily. "I just said I _found_ it in a box over there."

He took a step backwards, holding his hands out in front of him. "Jesus, Chris. You don't have to get so defensive."

I bristled, fire flashing before my eyes. "I do when you all of the sudden start interrogating me about something and then accuse me of lying to you."

"For fuck's sake," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I didn't accuse you of lying. I just asked you a simple goddamn question. You're the one who freaked out and went off the deep end." His pupils darkened. "You're acting really weird about this. What are you hiding?"

"Nothing."

"Do you have a boyfriend? Is that it? Did he give you that ring?"

"No! Trust me, if I had a boyfriend, I would have called _him_ for help instead of _you_!"

He flinched.

"Besides," I recklessly forged on, almost twelve months of pent up fury and repressed heartache spilling forth like a tidal wave crashing to the seashore, damaging everything in its path. "I don't know why you suddenly care so much! You certainly weren't concerned about the ring on my finger when you decided to fuck Carly behind my back!"

Ben's body went completely rigid. "I feel sorry for the poor bastard if you do have a boyfriend. Somebody needs to warn him about what he's getting himself into before he makes the same mistake I did."

" _Get out!"_

"Gladly."

He spun around and stormed out of the dining room.

"Yeah, that's right!" I screamed at his retreating form. "Leave! Just like you did before. That's the only thing you're good at doing!"

A few seconds later I heard the front door slam.

As soon as I was alone I crumpled to the floor and burst into angry tears.

Why did things between us always have to be so nasty? Why couldn't I turn the clock back and return to a time when we were both happy and still in love with each other?

"Who was that?"

My head reared up at Erik's unexpected demand and I let out a startled gasp. He had materialized near the entrance to the room, and his gaze was directed toward the front door. His voice, which was normally soft and seductive, had taken on a razor-sharp edge.

"My ex-husband." I pushed myself up off the ground and wiped my palms off on my pants.

"You were married?"

"Yeah, once upon a time. Until he had an affair and left me for another woman he worked with."

I had intended for that statement to come out as a harsh jab at Ben, but my voice cracked at the end, betraying the sorrow I had so desperately tried to keep locked behind a wall of animosity. Fresh tears blurred my vision, and despite my best efforts to hold them in, quickly brimmed over and silently slid down my cheeks.

Pulling at my lip with my teeth, I turned away so that he couldn't see me cry. It was embarrassing enough that he had to witness my fight with Ben and the breakdown that followed.

"You still care for him."

It was less a question then it was an observation.

"No," I sighed. "I don't know."

"I…." He hesitated. "I understand. "I, too, know what it feels like to care for someone who doesn't love you in return."

Ever so slowly, I twisted back around to face him.

"Christine?" I dared to whisper.

Erik nodded.

"I offered her that ring as a token of our happier moments together. I left instructions with an acquaintance of mine to notify her of my inevitable death, and as a final favor to me, I asked that she return and bury me with it. She refused. I can't say I really blame her. She left with the man she truly loved that night, and that was the last time I saw her."

So, the ending in the book had been wrong after all. And if Christine hadn't promised to come back and bury him with it like the novel proclaimed, then I doubted she would have kissed him either. Judging by the abject misery in his eyes, I was sure that was a pretty safe bet.

My stomach clenched as I stared at the tortured soul standing in my dining room. The kiss that Christine had bestowed upon him had been the defining moment of the story. It had signified acceptance and redemption, possibly even forgiveness. It had turned the villain of the story into someone that we, as the readers, had actually started to care about. But in the end, it had all been the author's clever way to wrap everything up neatly and give everyone somewhat of a happy ending.

I was quickly learning that happy endings were not guaranteed.

A myriad of thoughts fluttered through my head. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry, but his reaction to my last apology made me reconsider at the last moment. He didn't want pity. He wanted someone to understand what he had been through and how it felt to be scorned by the person he cared about most in the world. Someone who had been through the same sort of rejection and would accept those feelings for what they were rather than judging him for the decisions that brought him to that point.

"Erik…. Wow. I don't know what to…," I lapsed into silence. The fact that he had just willingly shared something so personal left me completely speechless. "What made you change your mind about telling me?"

"I've had some time to consider everything you said," he replied softly. "The truth is, I am unused to kindness. Most people do not even want to look at me, let alone carry on a conversation, unless they have some sort of ulterior motive. So, naturally, I am suspicious when anyone takes a sudden interest in my affairs. But you…you treat me as no one has before, as though this," he gestured toward his mask, "isn't an issue. You hardly even notice it. Why is that?"

"Well, I'll admit it was a little off-putting at first, but so is that fact that, you know, you're a _ghost_ and I can see right through you."

Erik laughed. He actually laughed, and it was one of the most exquisite sounds I'd ever heard him make. The tone was rich and full and unreserved and in spite of everything that had happened, I couldn't help smiling in return.

"Fair enough," he said.

"Will you tell me more?" I quietly asked.

The mirth faded from his eyes and he once again grew serious as he contemplated my request.

"What would you like to know?"

I let out the breath I didn't even know I was holding. "How did your ring end up by the lake?"

When he turned and left the dining room, I thought he was signaling that he was done with the conversation, and that when I walked into the living room I would be alone once more. But I could still see his outline in front of me, barely visible against the blanket of darkness that shrouded the room.

 _He's more comfortable in the dark_ , I realized. That was fine with me. As long as he was willing to talk, I would accommodate him in whatever way I could.

"I remember very little of my final days," he revealed. "At some point they all began to blur together. Life held no meaning after Christine left. Not even music was enough, for every refrain that I played, every composition I wrote, reminded me of her. Of what I'd lost."

I covered my mouth with the hand.

"I had never been one who required much sustenance to begin with," he continued, "but as the days went on, I became increasingly apathetic about taking in any nourishment. Eventually I grew too weak to care. The last memory I have was of stumbling out to the lake. It was my intention to throw the ring into its murky depths and be done with it, but when the time came, I couldn't bring myself to part with it. Instead, I sank down to the bank and held on to it as tightly as I could until darkness closed in around me. I have no recollection of what happened after that. The next thing I knew, I was in the drawing room of my house in much the same state as I am now."

"You died of a broken heart." Tears were streaming freely down my cheeks. This time I made no attempt to wipe them away. "Right out there by the lake. Oh, shit! I _did_ take the ring from your final resting place! Oh my god. I really _am_ a grave robber." Doubling over, I wrapped my arms around my stomach. "Oh god. I think I'm gonna be sick."

" _Christine!"_

His voice came at me through the darkness like two strong hands seizing me by the shoulders. My skin instantly pebbled. I had always considered my name to be rather simple and boring; two syllables pronounced together in sharp sequence. Chris-tine. But the way it rolled off his tongue, spoken so reverently in his melodic French accent, softened the harsh edges and made it sound more beautiful than I ever thought possible.

"You did not remove the ring from my grave," Erik reassured me. "As I said before, an acquaintance of mine agreed to see to all those details. It is highly possible that he did not notice it had fallen to the ground when he came back and found me."

I gulped. Suddenly it felt like I had swallowed a sock. "Do you think that's why your trapped? That the ring needs to be reunited with you in order for you to rest?"

God, this was so morbid.

 _Please tell me I'm wrong. I don't want to dig up a body._

Now I really was going to be sick.

"Anything is possible, I suppose," he said. "But I think it's more likely that I am trapped here, as you say, as a form of punishment for all the wrong I have done in my life."

I grimaced. "What, like this is Hell for you?"

He nodded.

When I thought about it, it made sense. Being condemned to the cellars, unable to fully die and move on, constantly reminded of what had happened when he was alive and the choices he made. Except, there was one little problem with that theory.

"If you're in Hell, then where do I fit in to all this? I'm very much alive, and aside from some of the nasty thoughts that I had about Ben during our divorce, I haven't done anything worthy of Hell. Besides, if you were truly condemned, I don't think you'd be able to talk to me. And you being punished for your sins doesn't explain why this," I held up my left hand, "won't come off my finger."

His eyes grew cloudy without doubt as a puzzled frown settled over his lips and tightened his jaw. It was interesting how expressive he could be even though I couldn't see his whole face.

"I've existed for so long believing…. I have never considered any other…."

"Erik."

He slowly lifted his gaze to meet mine.

"Can you think of _anything_ that might be holding you back?"

"No. I am at a loss. When I died, I was ready. I welcomed it."

Once again, his words were like a knife through my heart. A month ago, I was overcome and distraught about being saddled with a ghost. Two weeks ago, I was terrified that I was being haunted by the Phantom. Tonight…tonight I was moved to tears by the broken man standing before me.

"Let me help you," I whispered.

The outline of Erik's body emerged from the darkness as he came forward until we were standing inches apart. This close, our height differences were obvious. I tilted my head up so I could maintain eye contact as he stared down at me.

"You would do that for me."

Licking my lips, I responded, "Yes."

I automatically raised my hand to shake on my promise and then immediately scolded myself at the sheer ridiculousness of the gesture. He was a ghost. I needed to remember that. But before I had time to drop it and apologize for my thoughtless actions, he had lifted his own hand. I watched, spellbound, as he laid his transparent palm over mine.

We both gasped when our hands met. It felt like the time I had touched the Tesla Coil during a field trip to the planetarium when I was young. Electricity sizzled between us, making my fingers tingle. Our eyes locked, and as we stared at each other in the dark, I suddenly knew that everything had changed.


	12. Chapter 12

Tomorrow marks the 10 year anniversary of when I posted my very first story on this site. I still remember how terrified I was after hitting the submit button. But what a wonderful journey it's been since! And I can think of no better way to commemorate the occasion than by posting an update.

Thanks for believing in me.

~Jamie

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

I barely even had time to consider the significance of what had happened before Erik wrenched his hand away and stumbled backward, putting as much distance between us as possible. The shadows of the night clung to him eagerly, wrapping their greedy fingers around his shoulders like a desperate lover, coaxing him back into their dark and gloomy embrace until only his white shirtfront and the panic in his glowing yellow eyes were visible.

"Wait!" I cried. Lunging forward instinctively, I stretched my hand out toward him to stop his hasty departure. "You can't go! Not now!"

It amazed me just how skittish he really was. I was beginning to realize that he was okay so long as he controlled the situation, but as soon as something unexpected came up that took that control away, he was ready to bolt back into the ether from whence he came without a backward glance.

He paused, lingering at the edge of the room. As he did so, the light from the dining room filtered softly through the open doorway and cast an unearthly glow around his retreating form.

Offhandedly I thought, _is it my imagination, or does his body look less transparent than it did before we touched?_

Erik slowly rotated around to face me and the sight of his cloaked form standing there against the backdrop of soft golden light stole my breath away. There was an aura of mystery and underlying authority that surrounded him—a dangerous combination, I quickly decided—and I found that I could not tear my eyes away. Suddenly, I understood the uneasiness and inexplicable anticipation that Christine must have felt every time he chose to emerge from the shadows and reveal himself to her.

"Please tell me you felt that," I whispered.

 _Please tell me I'm not going crazy_ , was what I really meant.

He nodded faintly.

"And you said nothing like this has ever happened to you before?" It wasn't that so much that I doubted he was telling me the truth; it was more that I needed to hear it from him that all this was a recent development.

Erik lifted his hands slowly and stared at his upturned palms. Longing briefly darkened his eyes before he shook his head and said, "Never. And it seems the longer I am here with you, the more my ability to interact with the physical world is intensifying."

"Why us?" I quietly asked, wrapping my hands around my upper arms. "I'm nobody to you. I'm just some random person who got talked in to taking a tour. I've thought about all of this until my head hurts and I _still_ can't come up with any sort of explanation that makes sense.

Some of the tension dissipated from Erik's shoulders. Folding his arms across his chest, he said, "I, too, am at a loss as to what the correlation might be."

I squeaked out a brittle laugh. "Anything I come up with sounds completely insane."

"Ghosts belong in stories and legends, not reality," he agreed. "However, it is rather difficult to deny that supernatural forces exist when I am proof that they do. I may have dallied with the occult briefly in the past, but I am afraid that what is happening now is outside my realm of expertise."

My brain latched onto the last word in his sentence.

"Oh my god!" I exclaimed, smacking my hand against my forehead. "Danica! She would know! Ugh, why didn't I think of this sooner? You know what, it doesn't matter. Tomorrow I'll go see her and she will explain everything."

Everything would work out. I was sure of it.

XXX

I was restless tonight—more so than usual. While Christine slept upstairs, I prowled around the first floor, wandering from room to room as I mulled over the events of the previous evening. But even now, hours later, I could not explain what had compelled me to reach for her hand, and I certainly could not explain what I felt when we touched. It might have been easy to ignore it and pretend that I hadn't noticed the peculiar, tingling sensation when our palms met, except for the fact that I hadn't felt this alive in over one-hundred-and-thirty-seven years.

XXX

The events of the past twenty-four hours must have weighed more heavily on me than I originally thought, because I ended up sleeping well past noon. But, for the first time since I got home from vacation, I woke up feeling refreshed. In fact, I was so excited to go back to Danica and inform her of everything I'd managed to learn about my ghost that it didn't even bother me that I'd slept half my day away. Once she heard about my progress with Erik, I was certain she would be able to shed some light on our strange predicament and be more than willing to tell us what to do next.

Outside, the afternoon sun was streaming through the trees, dappling the bright green grass with patterns of interconnecting, leaf-shaped shadows. Each day seemed to be just a bit cooler than the last, and several neighbors were out taking advantage of the break from sweltering heat. The older lady across the street was hard at work weeding her flower bed, while her son (I assumed he was her son, since he looked too old to be one of her grandkids) was mowing her lawn. A few houses to left of hers, a construction crew was busy ripping old shingles off the roof and chucking them into the dumpster parked in the driveway. The echoes of pounding hammers and nail guns, ratcheting sprinklers, and growling two-stroke motors all combined to create the wonderfully pleasant sounds of summer.

I stood on the front porch for a few seconds, breathing in the earthy smells of late-summer flowers and cut grass. My own lawn was in desperate need of mowing. The recent rainstorms had revived some of the places where the grass was dying, thanks in large part to the higher than average temperatures at the beginning of August and me being out of town and not able to monitor how well the automatic sprinklers were doing. I was going to have a hell of a time with the lawn mower. Some of the grass was almost six inches tall in some areas!

Swearing to myself that I would definitely tackle it sometime this weekend, I bounded down the stairs and hurried over to my Jeep. The grass could wait. Right now, I had something more important to do.

Finding Danica's shop turned out to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Since I had stumbled upon it quite by accident, I couldn't remember exactly how I had gotten there in the first place. It was only after twenty minutes of aimless driving and having to return to my work to retrace my steps from there that I spotted the fast food burger joint that sat on the corner of the parking lot next to the small strip mall.

The row of buildings looked different bathed in sunlight. It had been overcast the last time I was here, and the rain had made the exterior look dull and dingy. Now, with the sun glinting off the blonde brick, the façade was bright and cheerful. I honestly couldn't remember seeing the pots spilling over with bright petunias that lined the sidewalks, or the bistro next door with its alfresco seating and colorful patio umbrellas during my last visit. No wonder why I had such trouble locating the building this time around.

In a move that would have had Ben gripping the "oh shit!" handle and mashing his foot down on an imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side of the car, I cut across traffic, swerved into the parking lot, and pulled into an empty parking space around back. Throwing my car keys and my into my purse, I hit the lock button, slammed the door, and hurried around to the front of the building.

My good mood all but evaporated as soon as I got to the door of the shop and saw that the space within was completely dark. A quick glance at the hours posted on the sidelight window told me that the shop was usually open from 10:00 AM to 4:30 PM on Saturdays. I frowned, pulling my phone out of my purse to glance at the time on the lock screen. It was only 3:45 PM. She should still be open for another forty-five minutes….

"You lookin' for the lady next door?"

I spun around, clutching my phone to my chest in surprise. A woman about my age stared back at me, a tub of dirty dishes balanced on one of her hips. She shifted her weight to get a better grip and tilted her head at me quizzically.

"Yeah."

She set the tub down on one of the bistro tables and began emptying water from the used glasses into it before placing them carefully inside.

"She ain't there."

I resisted the urge to rub the center of my forehead. I didn't have the patience today to have someone regurgitate the obvious facts. I needed answers and I needed them now.

Even so, I made sure my voice was calm and even when I asked, "Do you know where she went?"

"Something about having to fly out of state to go help her daughter. I don't know. You'd have to ask my boss if you want more details."

"Okay, thanks."

The woman nodded and resumed her job of clearing away the rest of the dishes.

With no other leads, I figured I might as well go inside and see if anyone else knew anything.

I was immediately hit with the lingering smells of bacon and dark coffee from that morning's breakfast when I walked inside. Despite being smack in between the lunch and dinner rush, the restaurant was fairly busy. Silverware clinking against porcelain plates and the soft chatter of the patrons' conservations filled the air. My stomach growled, reminding me that I skipped breakfast and my usual morning cup of coffee.

A heavyset older lady with a hairstyle that was so teased it looked like she had just stepped out from filming an eighties hair band music video was manning the cash register. She finished handing the customer in front of me his change and then turned her eyes on me expectantly.

"Um…hi," I said, twisting the gold ring around my finger nervously. "I'm looking for information about the woman who owns the shop next door."

"The psychic?" she rasped. Based on the roughness of her gravelly voice, I guessed that she probably had a two-pack-a-day smoking habit that went as far back as her hairstyle.

I nodded.

"Her daughter's husband was killed in a nasty car accident, so she flew back east to tend kids and help make the funeral arrangements. She asked me to keep an eye on the shop until she comes back next month. Heard the kids were little, too. Like two and four or something like that. Such a shame," she tsked.

"That's terrible," I said. Suddenly my own problems seemed puny and insignificant compared to what I knew Danica's daughter was going through. After all, I had once been on the receiving end of that dreadful phone call.

I thanked her for her time and the information and left.

The afternoon had only grown prettier while I was inside, but I was no longer in the mood to enjoy any of it. A big black thundercloud of misery had settled over me, chasing away my happy thoughts along with any hope for answers on what was happening between Erik and me.

It seemed like no matter what I did, every time I came up with a new solution, I immediately ran into some sort of roadblock that made executing said idea virtually impossible.

I sighed. I wasn't ready to go home yet. I didn't want to go back to my dark and dreary house and tell the sullen ghost that resided there that I had failed, and that we were back to square one. Again.

Stalling, I pulled out one of the ornate wrought iron patio chairs and flopped into it. There had to be some sort of information to be had on the subject. Surely someone somewhere had experienced the same things I was. I just wasn't looking hard enough.

I took my phone out of my purse and opened up my mobile browser, typing in "touching ghosts" into the search engine. The first page turned up a bunch of websites that listed the different types of ghosts—mainly poltergeists—but none of them went into any real detail about people who had made actual physical contact with one. And none of them mentioned being able to hold long conversations with a ghost like he was a normal, living person.

"Christine?"

I slammed my phone face-down on the table and looked up to where Dr. Stevenson's soft blue eyes gazed down at me warmly.

"I thought that was you."

"Oh, hi, Dr. Stevenson."

Even when we weren't working, he was impeccably dressed. While I usually favored the jeans and tight t-shirt look on guys, I had to admit that he looked good in his light beige dress slacks and soft yellow polo shirt. The combination made his hair and his eyes pop.

"Christine, please. It's Jake. Especially since we're not in the office."

"Okay." I laughed nervously. "What are you doing here?"

 _Smooth, Chris. Real smooth. It's a public place; he's allowed to walk down the street._

"I'm meeting a friend for a quick bite before our 5:30 tee time." He nodded toward the bistro. "Is this place any good?"

"I don't know. I just discovered this place myself."

He grunted with what sounded like approval and said, "Why don't you let me buy you a cup of coffee, then?"

"Oh, no, that's okay," I replied, waving my hand in a dismissive gesture. "I was just getting ready to leave, anyway."

"C'mon. You look like you could use some cheering up."

"What about your friend?" I countered.

"He just phoned to say that he was running late. I have a few minutes."

In my head, I could hear Maddie's voice chastising me. _For God's sake, Chris, it's a goddamn cup of coffee. Give the poor hunky doctor a chance…._

Coffee did sound really good, especially since I hadn't had any today.

"All right," I relented. "You talked me into it."

"Excellent," Dr. Stevenson beamed, sliding into the chair in front of me. He raised his hand to get the server's attention.

The same young girl who had been bussing tables earlier appeared. "What can I get for you?"

"Two coffees, please," he said. Flicking his gaze to me, he asked, "Cream and sugar?"

"Yes, please."

"With cream and sugar. Thank you, Tara," he said, reading her name off the tag pinned to her shirt.

The waitress disappeared, leaving us completely alone on the patio. I squirmed in my seat, trying to pretend that this wasn't awkward as hell.

"So," Jake began conversationally. "What has suddenly darkened that normally sunny disposition of yours?"

Crap, I moaned inwardly, immediately regretting my decision to sit down with him. Underneath the table I dug my fingernails into my palms. This was the last time I let my desire for coffee overrule my common sense. I needed to come up with a good excuse to leave before I dug myself into an even deeper hole.

"I'm beginning to worry about you," he went on. "This funk you're in isn't like you at all. You know you can talk to me, right?"

I nodded and bit back a sigh. I was going to have to give him something, or he would just continue to badger me every time we had a free moment alone at work. Thankfully, the arrival of our coffee gave me a few more seconds to formulate an answer.

We both fell silent as Tara set a metal coffee decanter and two porcelain coffee mugs in front of us, followed by bowls of sugar packets and an assortment of International Delight single-serving coffee creamers.

"Anything else?" she asked.

Jake looked to me. I shook my head.

"No, I think we're good. Thank you," he replied.

Seizing the coffee pot, I poured a generous amount into my mug and busied myself with adding just the right amounts of cream and sugar. It was only after taking several sips that I felt confident enough to answer him.

"I asked Ben to come by last night to help me board up a broken window." I figured that telling him a watered-down version of the argument between me and my ex-husband was a safe enough bet. After all, it had actually happened, so I wouldn't have to worry about accidentally mixing up my story later and being caught in a lie. Plus, Dr. Stevenson knew about my contentious divorce with Ben, thereby giving me a plausible excuse for the recent change in my attitude. "It…didn't end well."

"How did you expect it to end?" Jake asked quietly.

"Not in an argument," was my dry response.

What I had really wanted was Ben to come in, pull me into his arms, tell me how sorry he was for everything and that he realized he couldn't live without me, and then beg me to take him back. It was a foolish pipe dream and deep down I knew it. But things hadn't always been so hateful between us, and I couldn't help but look back longingly on the all the good times we'd shared over the years.

" _I just want to stay like this forever," I said, releasing a dreamy sigh as I snuggled deeper against Ben's side._

 _He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Mmhmm, I know what you mean."_

 _Above us, white puffy clouds dotted a brilliant light blue sky. It was an absolutely perfect day for an impromptu picnic._

" _I can't believe daddy let you escape for the afternoon."_

 _Ben laughed and sat up, reaching into the wicker picnic basket for the open bottle of champagne that rested against its side. "I was honestly surprised he did. That man is an absolute slave driver when it comes to deadlines, especially with us trying to land that new account." He refilled my glass and handed it back to me. "But it's not every day that my beautiful wife gets accepted to college. I think that's worth celebrating. And your dad was more than happy to oblige."_

" _Geez, you act like I got into an Ivy-League school or something," I muttered with a self-deprecating laugh. "It's only community college. Just about everyone who 'applies' gets in."_

" _Still, you made the decision to better yourself by furthering your education. That's nothing to sneeze at. I'm proud of you, Chris."_

" _You are?"_

" _Of course." Ben's chocolate brown eyes twinkled in the sunlight as he clinked his glass against the rim of mine. "Just think of it; in a few short years you'll be able to quit that stupid receptionist job because you'll be a famous interior designer, and I'll be well on my way to assuming command of your dad's insurance agency once he retires. We'll have it made."_

 _I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face even if I'd wanted to. Ben's enthusiasm was contagious. "You sound like you've got it all figured out."_

" _Yep. It'll be perfect."_

 _And then there was no more room for talk as he took the glass from my hand, pushed me back down to the blanket, and kissed me until my toes curled._

I didn't know it then, but that was the beginning of the end.

My parents died in a car accident a few months later. Dad fell asleep behind the wheel on the long drive home from a networking banquet and their car drifted across the center lane and into the path of an oncoming semi-truck. The truck driver tried to swerve and miss him, but his trailer jack-knifed in the process. The trailer struck my parents' sedan as it swung around, trapping their car underneath as the entire rig tipped over and skidded off the side of the freeway and into a ditch. Both he and my mom, as well as the two passengers in the truck were killed. The insurance company my father owned had to be liquidated in order to pay for the mounting legal bills that resulted from the negligent death lawsuits that followed, leaving Ben out of a job. He found a position with another agency soon enough, but it wasn't the same. He missed my dad, and even though he wouldn't tell me, I knew he was upset over losing out on the chance of someday owning my dad's firm. To combat all the pain and depression of having our lives completely turned upside-down, I threw myself head first into work and school.

I should have been more aware of what was happening, but at the time I was so mired in my own pain and misery that I failed to notice how much Ben was suffering as well. He'd been like a son to my father, and his sudden death had hit us both equally hard.

It's easy to see things clearly when you're looking back at them through a memory. As they say, hindsight is always twenty-twenty. There were so many things that I would change if I had the chance to go back and right all my wrongs. I wouldn't have buried myself in work. I wouldn't have pulled away from Ben when he needed me the most. I would have given him the attention he'd so desperately sought in the arms of another. The thought of all that could have been if we'd stayed together weighed heavily on my mind every minute of every day and was a constant nagging reminder of how utterly alone I was now.

"Christine?"

Dr. Stevenson's gentle prodding pulled me back to the present.

"I know you don't want to hear this, but you need to let him go. You're living in the past and pining away for something that will never be again. It's preventing you from embracing all the good things you do have and moving on with your life."

I shot straight up in my chair. "What did you just say?"

"Leave the past in the past," he said firmly. "Depression is a silent killer, Christine. Don't let yourself become its victim."

"Oh my god."

I suddenly knew why Erik was trapped.

"That's it. That's it!" I proclaimed excitedly. "Thank you, Dr. Stevens—I mean Jake. I-I've gotta go." I jumped out of my chair and grabbed my purse. "Uhhh…thanks for the coffee."

Jake looked thoroughly confused, but smiled at me, nonetheless. "Sure. Anytime Christine. I'm glad I could…help."

"Oh, you did," I quickly assured him. "Trust me, you definitely did."

And with that I spun around and ran all the way back to my car.

"Erik!" I called out as soon as I charged through the front door.

Without breaking stride, I ran around the living room and the kitchen, closing all the plantation blinds one by one. Gradually, each room began to dim as I systematically shut out the bright sunlight, until once again the house was swathed in gloomy darkness.

"Erik, are you there?"

"Yes, I am here."

I whipped around at the sound of his disembodied voice, searching the shadows for a glimpse of his ghostly form. Finally, I spied him standing in the middle of the dining room, his arms folded loosely over his chest.

"I figured it out!" I exclaimed. "I know why you're still here. It's Christine!"

XXX

I immediately tensed.

It was clear from the look on her face that she was incredibly proud of her discovery, but for me, that statement induced such a feeling of dread that, had I been able to draw breath, I would have found it swiftly expelled from my lungs.

What could Christine have possibly had to do with my being trapped between life and death? I'd let her go. I hadn't pursued her and the boy as they fled the cellars. I hadn't forced her to stay with me, even though I knew I could have. Granting Christine her freedom was the first genuinely good, unselfish thing I'd ever done. My heart may have been shattered in the process, but my conscience was clear.

So, if guilt wasn't the reason, then what was?

A sinister thought wriggled its way into my mind.

Was it possible that Christine, still reeling from all the horrific things she'd endured because of my scheming and manipulation, had caused this as some sort of final retribution? Had she somehow cursed me, dooming me to this restless existence?

That notion cut me right down to the quick.

Hunching my shoulders against the sudden onslaught of pain, I closed my eyes and turned away.

"Erik?"

A small, pale hand entered my field of vision and reached for my forearm. I was almost certain that she meant to lay her palm over my wrist, but the contact never came. Before I even had a chance to pull away, her fingers had already passed right through me.

The young woman before me appeared both confused and disappointed, but those emotions were fleeting as she looked at me with questions in her eyes.

"I thought you'd be happy to hear that I'd made progress," she said quietly, her brows furrowing as she attempted to meet and hold my gaze. "What's wrong?"

"Stop. Please." I waved her off. "Don't say anything more. I don't want to know. I don't think I could handle knowing that she was responsible for this."

"Responsible?" she repeated, blinking several times in disbelief. "Is that what you think happened? That she condemned you out of some sort of need for revenge?"

XXX

Erik flicked his hand towards his mask in a frustrated gesture of despair.

"It's the most logical conclusion, is it not?" There was an ever-so-slight waver in his voice that betrayed the cool indifference he was presenting. "I daresay that I deserve it after everything I've done. But…oh, Christine." Clutching at the shirt over his chest, he sighed, "Is this what it's come to? Did I really mean so little to you?"

"No!" I choked, fighting back the biting sting of fresh tears. I should have known that he would immediately jump to the worst-case scenario. It suddenly occurred to me that, in my excitement to share my revelation with him, my dramatic exclamation had come across incredibly accusatory. A twinge of guilt knifed through me at the realization that I had caused him such unwarranted suffering. "No, that's not what I meant at all!"

The eyes that stared at me from behind the mask were cold and guarded.

"What I mean is that I think you're trapped here because of a lack of closure stemming from the last time you saw Christine," I hastily explained.

In the blink of an eye, Erik's demeanor changed, his mood shifting from one extreme to the other. He spun on me, his cloak fanning out around him. "I gave her the choice and she chose to leave with the boy," he hissed. "How much more 'closure' do I need?"

He was throwing up his defenses, trying to deflect my attempts to delve deeper into what happened between them with anger. What he didn't know was that I was very familiar with that tactic, having been there many times myself, and knowing that made it easier to look past his harsh words and see the wounded man behind them.

"I have no doubt that you knew exactly where you stood that night," I said softly. "I'm not questioning that. But I also know from experience that those feelings don't just go away. They don't make sense. They don't listen to reason. And they're very persuasive in getting you to throw all logic out the window in favor of blind hope. I'm a prime example. I still love Ben. Even after everything he's done to me. I still keep hoping that one day he'll come back, that he'll change his mind, and that maybe…."

Oh my god.

"Erik!" I gasped. "What if she changed her mind? What if she _did_ come back, only it was too late?" My heart thumped wildly against my chest. "What if _she_ died with the same sort of regrets you did? What if she's out there somewhere, trapped just like you, because she didn't get the closure she needed. Because she never got the chance to tell you that she made the wrong choice."

"No…." Shaking his head disbelievingly, he murmured. "It isn't possible. Christine…."

The longing in his voice was as unmistakable as it was heartrending. His quiet anguish screamed out to me, reaching the part of me that knew exactly how he felt. And in that moment, I stopped seeing him as the infamous Opera Ghost with the volatile temper. He was just a man. A man still desperately in love. We had more in common than I thought, he and I, and I knew then and there that I would do whatever it took to explore every aspect of this new theory.

The world around me narrowed to a pinpoint as I was unexpectedly besieged with memories of past conversations.

Danica's grave comment. _You were meant to find that ring, Christine._

My own cry of frustration. _Why us? I'm nobody to you._

The look of undisguised hope in Erik's eyes. _You would do that for me?_

And then suddenly I knew.

"I know why I was the one who found your ring," I whispered to myself. I locked eyes with Erik. "I know what my purpose is in all this. I'm supposed to help you find her."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Nearly a century and a half of repressed emotion came rushing to the surface, viciously severing the ironclad hold I had on my self-control. It had been so easy to give in to hate when anger and the pain of rejection were the only emotions spurring me on.

But this?

Just the thought of my sweet, innocent Christine imprisoned in the same sort of hell in which I now existed was enough to cleave what remained of my soul in two.

All that time I had wasted being angry and feeling sorry for myself….

I couldn't prevent the cry that escaped me. Laden with despair and tinged with rage, it reverberated around the small dining room, tearing my heart asunder all over again as it was echoed back to me.

Fate had never been on my side, but this was too much. Neither one of us deserved to be the victims of such a cruel game. I did not even want to consider that Christine and I may have missed each other by a mere smattering of days.

The dark wooden paneling on the wall in front of me grew hazy as the room began to spin. Suddenly lightheaded, I lurched to the side, stumbling as I tried to keep my balance, before the world around me closed in and everything went black. The last thing I remembered before surrendering to the darkness was a peculiar stabbing sensation around my ribcage.

XXX

Even if I lived to be a hundred, I doubted I would ever encounter an experience that was as frightening as what I witnessed that night. Erik's tormented cry filled the air around us as he doubled over in agony. Then, as I stared helplessly, his entire body…flickered. One moment he was transparent enough that I could see the computer desk behind him, and the next his form was completely solid. It happened several times in rapid succession, and each time it did he grew more and more disoriented. When it finally stopped, he wobbled back and forth for a few seconds, as though he were fighting off a dizzy spell, before he fell forward and toppled into one of the sawhorses, his chest clipping one of its sharp corners. The sawhorse folded up and clattered to the ground with a loud _thwack_ , taking Erik along with it.

Startled, I rushed forward to help him only to be freeze about halfway there. Suddenly transparent once again, his form vanished just as he struck the ground.

"Erik!" I shouted. Running over to the spot where he had been, I dropped to my knees and pawed the hardwood floor with frantic fingers as though it held some clue of where he went. " _Erik_!"

What the hell just happened!

He hadn't meant to disappear. Of that, I was certain.

Where did he go? Was he okay? Had we finally solved the mystery of his captivity and now that he knew he was able to successfully pass on to the other side? Was he suddenly transferred to where Christine waited for him?

I didn't know the answers to any those questions. But one thought doggedly shoved its way to the surface, relentless in its demand to be heard, and as I knelt on the floor where he had stood only moments earlier, I wondered if I would ever see him again.

XXX

Days passed, and then weeks, taking the rest of August and the last vestiges of summer along with it. September marked its entrance with unseasonably cold temperatures, and the drastic change in the weather sapped the dwindling life from the leaves in record time.

Day after day I kept home that Erik would reappear and explain to me what happened, and day after day I was disappointed. I was quickly beginning to doubt that he was ever coming back.

If I wasn't so distraught over the whole thing, I would have laughed at my absurdity. Months ago, I would have been relieved to have finally been rid of my ghost problem. But now I was acutely aware of his absence. The house seemed different, more subdued, and I found myself missing his presence with an alarming intensity.

But the more that time went by, the more I became convinced that I was on my own to finish what we started. I had a purpose now, and I was determined to find out what happened to Christine Daaé whether Erik was here or not. I couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that he was stuck out there in the void between dimensions, and that thought alone kept me going.

Unfortunately, trying to find any information on the real Christine Daaé was turning out to be damned near impossible. There was lots of information to be had on internet about the fictional Christine—the one in the book and in the musical—but that wasn't going to do me any good. I needed actual facts. Real names, dates, places…. Not even any of the DNA ancestry websites had any information on the once famous opera singer. I had even—in a moment of extremely poor judgement—consulted the Ouija board again to see if I could make contact with both Erik and Christine, but the planchette had been stubbornly still and all it did was make me feel like an idiot by the end of it.

Closing the lid to my laptop after yet another internet search, I leaned back on the couch cushions with a sigh and ran my hands through my hair.

"I wish you were here," I murmured. I'd taken to talking to him, even though I knew he probably couldn't hear me. It made the house feel less empty somehow, and I didn't feel so alone. "At least then you could give me some insight as to her history, tell me if I'm even looking in the right places."

XXX

Maddie and Rochelle came over one night a few days later. I'd been bragging about my progress on the kitchen countertops and had managed to bribe them with the promise of mediocre wine and good conversation if they stopped by so I could show them. They both readily agreed.

"This is incredible!" Rochelle gasped as she ran her hands over the beige tiles. "It's going to look so good when you're done with it!"

"I'm almost there," I beamed. "I've just got to finish the backsplash and then figure out how to grout it."

Maddie nodded approvingly. "I like it. But I have to admit, when you said you were going to 'tile' your kitchen countertops, I pictured you doing it with those little porcelain tiles they use in bathrooms."

"God no," I snorted, conjuring up images of the small three-by-three tiles people used in their shower stalls. "That would have been just as bad as the outdated Formica. Plus, can you imagine having to place all those tiles down individually. And make sure they're straight?" I shook my head. "No thank you."

They both laughed.

While Rochelle grabbed the bottle of wine off the kitchen table, I picked my way over to the cupboard and retrieved three wine glasses. Flicking my head toward the front room, I motioned for the girls to follow me.

"How long did it take you to clean up all the glass?" Maddie asked off-handedly as we all sat down. "I bet getting it out of the rug here was a bitch."

"Glass?" Rochelle tilted her head. "What glass?"

"From the window—"

"A power surge blew out all of Chris' light bulbs," Maddie replied at the same time. "Wait. What window?" she demanded.

I'd forgotten that I hadn't told either of them about the window. After what happened with Ben and then Erik disappearing, I really hadn't been in the mood to bring it up.

"I think one of the neighbor kids hit a ball into the window," I said, pointing in the direction of the dining room. "It's all boarded up now."

Rochelle frowned. "Sorry, guys, I'm a little slow. I get why there would be glass all over the floor from the window, but…what happened with the light bulbs? Why would they all blow up at once?"

"It was the night of that really bad thunderstorm," Maddie cut in before I had a chance to say anything. "There was a big power surge and it caused all her lights to turn on and then explode. She showed up at my house a complete wreck, thinking that it was the ghost who did it."

"Now that I think about it, you have mentioned your ghost in a while." Rochelle cocked her head thoughtfully. "Whatever happened with that?"

"Nothing," I said softly. "The ghost is gone."

"Well, good riddance, then," she said cheerily. "One less thing you need to worry about, anyway. Although I have to admit, the séance was kinda fun. Even though it didn't work."

I looked down at my untouched glass of wine, listening quietly as my tale of ghosts and spirits were forgotten in favor of lighter topics. Maddie's store had just gotten their new fall line in, and the two of them were happily chatting about the trends for the upcoming season.

"You okay, Chris?" Rochelle asked after the conversation had shifted from sweaters to boots to handbags and I had yet to make a comment or otherwise join in.

"Yeah, I'm just a little tired," I lied. "Now that I've sat down, my work in the kitchen earlier today has finally caught up to me."

"You do look a little worn out," Maddie agreed. Nodding to Rochelle, she said, "We'll let you get some rest."

The three of us stood up, and after we hugged and said our goodbyes, I walked them out, lingering in the doorway until both their cars were out of sight. Then, wrapping my arms around myself, I walked back into the living room. The house seemed emptier than ever now that they were gone.

Damn it! What the hell was wrong with me? Why did I care that Erik was gone? I should be happy, for fuck's sake! No more ghost! No more worrying! No more trying to figure out how to get him to go away!

I stifled a watery sigh that had come dangerously close to sounding like something else.

Erik wasn't coming back.

I had to accept that.

XXX

A weak cold front moved in just in time for the weekend, bringing a mild rainstorm along with it. I had all the doors and windows open in the kitchen so I could hear the sounds of the raindrops as they fell on the concrete outside while I worked. Every so often, a loud crack of thunder rumbled through the house. There was a pumpkin spice scented candle burning on the stove and a full carafe of coffee waiting for me in the pot on the kitchen table. Fall was here, and I was determined to enjoy it.

Using the jagged edge of the tile trowel, I carefully scored the mortar and set the final piece of tile in place against the backsplash. Dusting my hands off on my jeans, I stepped back to admire my handiwork and smiled in satisfaction. This project had taken me a lot longer than I had anticipated, but I was incredibly pleased with how it turned out. The large beige tiles really warmed up the kitchen, especially with the strip of small alternating burgundy, beige, and sage green accent tiles that ran through the middle of the backsplash. Although the color complemented the honey oak cabinets well enough, I imagined that a darker stain would really pull all the colors together. Maybe that could be my next project. Well that, and updating the flooring. The rest of the house had hardwood floors, but whoever had the place before me had ripped them out in the kitchen in favor of tile. It didn't look _bad_ , but tile floors along with tile countertops was just too much tile, in my opinion. Unfortunately, I knew nothing about installing flooring, so that was most likely a job I would have to hire out for. And who knew when I'd have the money to do that.

The musical tinkling of the wind chimes outside my kitchen window suddenly turned into an ugly clatter as the wind picked up from the north, causing them to violently slam against each other. The rain, which had started as a gentle drizzle, suddenly gave way to a fierce downpour, the drops smacking against the ground so fast and so hard that the patio and path out to the tool shed were quickly submerged in water.

"Shit!"

Water was already starting to creep over the threshold and into the kitchen by the time I ran over to the back door and slammed it shut. Pulling the hand towel off the handle of the stove, I dropped it on the floor and pushed it around with my foot to mop up the growing puddle.

As I bent over to pick it up and toss it into the sink, I caught a shadow out of the corner of my eye. But my brain, still focused on stemming the flow of water, didn't register its significance until I turned around and came face-to-face with the ghostly silhouette standing behind me.

" _Jesus Christ_!" I shrieked, throwing my arms up in front of me in a knee-jerk reaction to ward off any perceived threat. The hand towel went flying into the air and landed on the countertop behind me with a wet splat.

Erik was standing quietly between the fridge and the kitchen table. Cloaked in his familiar dark cape, he looked as imposing as ever with his shoulders straight, hands clenched tightly at his sides, and chin jutted out at a slightly upward angle. The sudden appearance of a strange masked man may have been enough to send most homeowners running out the door screaming, but his rigid countenance only filled me with joy.

"Erik!" I exclaimed. "You came back!"

Then, without any further warning, I proceeded to rapid-fire questions at him, barely even giving him time to respond to one before peppering him with another. "Are you okay? Why did you disappear like that? Where did you go? Did you try to find Christine?" With each question I asked, his expression grew more and more somber.

Without answering me, he strode over to the countertop, ghosting his fingers along the newly finished backsplash in quiet astonishment. "How long have I been gone?"

His softly spoken inquiry stopped me dead in my tracks.

"You mean, you don't know?" I blinked at him in surprise. "You've been gone over a month."

XXX

I whipped my head around and stared at her in utter, stupefied shock.

" _A month_?"

"Yes," she replied slowly. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "I'm guessing you didn't mean to stay away so long?"

I looked back down at the countertop in disgust. "I did not intend to go away at all."

It had been quite an adjustment getting used to existing as a spirit and no longer as a corporeal being, one that I still struggled with from time to time. Inwardly, I still felt every bit a living, breathing man, and while it was true that I couldn't smell or touch anything tangible, my mind remained fully and painfully aware. However, I was not always in control of my… _manifestations_ , for lack of a better term. It wasn't unusual for me to vanish only to reappear again and find that a significant amount of time passed in the meantime. I had no recollection of anything that occurred during the time I was gone, and when I finally did appear, it always felt like waking up from a deep, dreamless sleep.

Such was the case with this latest episode. It had not been my choice to disappear that night, and the discovery that a month had slipped through my fingers without my knowing it left me feeling unsettled and out of sorts.

There was movement behind me and when I glanced back, I noticed that Christine had moved closer to me.

"What happened to you?" she quietly asked. "One moment you looked like you do now and the next your body was solid, almost like you were real person again. And then, when you knocked over the sawhorse and disappeared immediately afterward…I…it was scary to watch. Are you all right?"

Images of that night came swirling back, tickling the edge of my consciousness like a long, forgotten dream.

I brought my hand up to my chest, tenderly rubbing the spot where I remembered making contact with something moments before I blacked out.

Christine was watching me with hawk-like intensity, her eyes riveted upon the hand on my chest.

"You said I fell onto the sawhorse?"

"Yes."

"I felt that," I revealed, focusing on the floor between us. "Do you know how long it's been since I felt _anything_?"

She shook her head.

"Ages. The memories are there, but they have faded over time." I paused long enough to bring my gaze back to hers. "I can't explain what's happening to me."

I regretted my comment as soon as the words were out of my mouth. Why was I telling her this? I never divulged how I was feeling. To anyone. Not even to those closest to me.

My answer was written plainly across her face. She understood. And for some inexplicable reason I had yet to discover, she seemed to accept what I had to say without judgment. That acceptance was a feeling I was wholly unused to, and one that I was also dangerously beginning to crave more and more.

Her expression grew serious as her teeth gently worked her bottom lip. I could see the gears steadily turning behind her those hazel eyes of hers and when they lit up seconds later, I knew she had made some sort of connection.

"Erik, have you noticed that any time you're able to interact with the physical world, it usually happens right after you've become uncomfortable or upset about something?"

Now it was my turn to slowly shake my head.

"Think about it. The candle, the light bulbs, the window, the fact that you disappeared even though you hadn't meant to…Every single time it starts out with me forcing you to think about your past or talk about Christine."

A window shattered in my memory.

 _Did you mean to do that?_

 _No._

"The real question is, what does it mean?" she prattled on. "I mean, other than the fact that you've obviously repressed some serious feelings."

I managed to look affronted.

"What? Tell me I'm wrong."

Her words held the hint of a challenge, but her tone was teasing. I smirked and when I spread my hands out in front of me in a gesture of defeat I was rewarded with a quip of delighted laughter.

"But really," she said, growing thoughtful and serious once more. Although the playfulness in her eyes was gone, the warmth was still there. "I think you're afraid to open up and think about her and allow yourself to feel those things because you're hurt, and you feel guilty about what happened. It's easier to shut yourself off then to risk subjecting yourself to those emotions again."

I listened quietly as she skillfully unearthed everything I had managed to keep hidden and brought it to the surface, dusting off her buried treasure to expose it to the gleaming light of day.

"The thing is, Erik, if you're having a physical reaction to some of these feelings…what do you think would happen if you gave yourself permission to…well, feel them? To accept them for what they are?"

"Accept them," I stated flatly. "You mean, forgive myself."

"Yeah. The first part of any healing begins with forgiveness. And maybe, just maybe, it's part of what's holding you back." She shrugged. "Hell, for all we know, Christine could be on the other side of the void, waiting for you to come to terms with what happened and forgive her for leaving you and forgive yourself for everything you did up until that point. It certainly supports my theory that she's just as trapped as you are."

"I…."

I faltered as rush of heat coursed through me. It felt as though I were standing close enough to a fire to be licked by an errant flame.

"Holy shit! I can't see through you anymore," she cried. Her hand shot out and tried to grab my forearm. "I still can't touch you, but I can't see through you, either! See? Something's happening. Whatever you're feeling right now, embrace it."

I'd spent the last century avoiding thoughts of that night, of the soul-crushing defeat and chest-constricting sorrow I had experienced when Christine walked out that door forever. I didn't want to be forced to consider how my actions were ultimately responsible for driving her away in the first place.

"It's okay." A soft, encouraging voice penetrated through the waves of despair and loneliness that were at that very moment threatening to overwhelm me. Like a drowning man, I latched ahold of the lifeline she tossed me and let her slowly pull me back to the safety of the shore. "Erik. It's okay."

"I don't know how," I whispered tremulously. Giving her a sidelong glance, I said, "I don't think I know how to forgive myself. I don't think I'm worthy of forgiveness."

The corners of her lips rose into a small smile. "That's part of the process. Putting worthiness aside and accepting that whatever happened, happened, and getting to the point where you're okay with it. It's not as simple as just saying 'all right then, I forgive myself.' You're going to have to leave your comfort zone and talk about it. But it's worth it though, isn't it?" she asked pointedly. "For you and Christine?"

For Christine.

I nodded slowly.

The small smile spread into a larger one that lit up her whole face. "Good."

Turning around, she began gathering her tools and placing them in the sink. I was grateful for a moment of privacy it allowed me to collect myself.

She had just started scrubbing when she suddenly stopped, her back stiffening.

"Well, damn." She twisted back around to me; one eyebrow cocked as she skewered me with a wry look. "I guess I _am_ playing therapist to a dead guy."

And in spite of myself, in spite of everything, I laughed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:** One of the areas that I find hard to write about PoTO is the music side. I don't have a background in music (I fake my way through guitar and piano), especially anything that has to do with opera. This chapter alludes to some of that, but I've tried to stay away from anything complex. My apologies if anything sounds weird or seems out of place.

* * *

 **Chapter 14**

It was another one of those blustery autumn days, the kind that usually had my mother beelining straight for the kitchen. Once there, she'd stay for hours, whipping up everything from homemade bread to stews to her famous applesauce cookies. From late September until Christmas, it seemed our house was always filled with the smell of warm, delicious, hearty food.

It was on a day like today that I really missed mom's cooking. I was a decent enough cook, when I tried, but there was no point in going to all that trouble to cook for one. Even before I tore apart my kitchen, I really never took the time to make anything from scratch. Not when buying something pre-made was so much easier.

But it was a perfect day to work on my kitchen. I had just returned from a trip to the home improvement store with the grout for the countertop, and I was excited to get started.

Erik watched from the sidelines as I mixed the prerequisite amount of water and grout in the empty bucket at my feet. Things had been different since he'd returned. That night had been a turning point for us both, although I wasn't exactly sure what had changed. What I did know what that he seemed more at ease around me now. The underlying tension that always seemed present whenever we were together was gone and, in its place, a tentative friendship had formed between us.

"Tell me about Christine," I asked, hoping that starting a conversation would relieve the awkwardness of him watching me work. "What was she like?"

He stared back at me blankly, a complete deer-in-the-headlights look upon his masked face. It was getting easier to read him, even with the mask. His eyes were one of his most expressive features, followed closely by his hands. He liked to use his hands when he talked, and the graceful motions he made with them were mesmerizing to watch. Stiff shoulders and a firm jaw usually meant he was annoyed. He held his arms closer to his chest when he was feeling insecure or unsure of something. And most of the time, big flourishing movement with his hands meant that he was passionate about what he was talking about.

"Don't look so startled," I chuckled. "It's just a question. It's not like I'm asking you to divulge the location of your secret lair."

Once he realized I was teasing him, he relaxed a little. And then, with an almost flippant raise of his shoulder, he said, "You'll have to forgive me if I'm not the greatest conversationalist. I'm…out of practice."

"And I'm sure you could come up with a dozen or more analogies on how practice makes perfect," I tossed back at him with a sly grin. I wasn't letting him off that easily.

"Touché, mademoiselle."

"So…?" I prompted. Moments passed, and when he still seemed unwilling to take the reins, I asked, "What did she look like?"

Erik's golden eyes softened wistfully. "Fair skin and long, curly brown hair. Her eyes were the color of the deepest sky and her lips a soft, rosy pink. She was a vision of beauty…."

I listened enviously as he described her in loving detail and wondered if Ben had ever used words like that when he talked about me.

"Was she tall?"

"No." He shook his head. "She was small, both in stature and in spirit. I spent the first few months of her tutelage trying peel away the layers of insecurity and convince her to come out of her shell."

"How come?"

"Her father had recently passed. From what I gathered, they were each other's entire world, and his death left a gaping hole in heart."

"I can relate," I quietly volunteered. "Both my parents were killed in an accident a couple years ago. The pain of losing them has never really gone away."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks."

We lapsed into silence, each of us momentarily lost in our own thoughts.

 _Well, this conversation got awkward real quick_ , I thought.

Desperate for something to keep my hands and my mind occupied, I lugged the bucket of grout over to the countertop, dipped the putty knife into the mixture, and began carefully stuffing it in the crevices between the tiles. The grout didn't want to slide off the knife, so I took my finger and pushed it down and into the hole and then used the flat edge to try to make it as smooth as possible. I stifled a sigh. At this pace it was going to take me forever to get it all done.

When I twisted back around to put more grout on the knife, Erik was staring at me, his head tilted quizzically to one side, his eyebrow raised just enough that it crested over the top of his mask.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm putting grout in between these tiles," I replied, showing him the putty knife with the grout before turning back to my work.

His quiet laughter drifted over to me.

"What?" My head reared up. "What's so funny?"

"You are making that more difficult than it needs to be."

I could feel my cheeks heat up and imagined that they were turning all sorts of red.

"How the hell would you know?" I snapped, tossing the putty knife on the counter so I could fold my arms across my chest defensively.

"I spent many years as an architect and a master mason and helped with the construction of the Paris Opera House," he answered calmly. "I think that gives me some qualifying experience."

I opened my mouth to say something, but no words came out. I just stood there, gawking at him like a complete tool.

Erik came forward until he was standing directly in front of me.

"May I?" he asked, expanding his hand toward the countertop.

I nodded dumbly.

"Some things are not that different from the way they used to be. For example, this," he pointed to the flat trowel with the weird square teeth that I'd used to lay down the mortar underneath the tiles. "This is the proper tool for grout."

How in the hell…? I made a face. "I don't understand how that's supposed to work," I muttered, skepticism dripping from voice.

"I could teach you, if you would like."

I bit my lip. Learn from a ghost?

"Okay. Sure. Why the hell not?"

The eyes behind the mask flickered with amusement at my continued cynicism.

"Now, the first thing you need to do is put a fair amount of grout onto the underside of your trowel," he instructed, pausing long enough for me to retrieve the tool and complete the action, "and spread it over these tiles right here."

I must have had a panicked expression on my face, because he let out a small chuckle.

"It won't stick to them. I promise. As long as you hurry," he added with a wry smile.

Taking a deep breath for courage, I slapped the grout down on the countertop, using the trowel to push it around until it covered the span of four tiles. As I did so, Erik moved behind me, peering over my shoulder to inspect my work.

"Yes, just like that," he said softly.

All the little hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. If he had had breath, I'm sure I would have felt it tickling the back of my ear. This was as close as he'd ever been to me, and I wasn't sure how to handle his proximity. I swore I could smell the faint scent of spices and wondered offhandedly if that was how he used to smell when he was alive, until I realized that I had the pumpkin spice candle burning on the stove.

I managed to suppress the anxious peal of relieved laughter before it left my throat. I was being ridiculous.

"Good," Erik continued, completely unaware of the dizzying effect his nearness was having on me. "Use your sponge and wipe the excess of the surface of the tiles."

I lunged for the sponge and did as I was told, happy to have something else to focus my attention on. The grout came up easily enough but stayed in the crevices between the tiles. Every so often Erik would lean over to inspect my work, silently pointing to an area that needed a little bit more. My confidence grew as I repeated the process and slowly but surely, the finished countertop started to emerge.

"Wow. I had no idea…." I gasped, stepping back to admire my work. I was amazed at how easy it had been. It would have taken me days doing it the other way. At that thought, my cheeks instantly reddened again. I glanced back at Erik. "You must think I'm an idiot."

"On the contrary, I've been watching you work in here and I am rather impressed with your knowledge of carpentry. Where did you learn how to do all this?"

"My dad. Home improvement was a big hobby of his, and I spent a lot of my childhood glued to his side, watching. As I got older, he started letting me help with little things here and there. Soon, it became 'our thing' and I've enjoyed it ever since."

"You have learned well."

My cheeked flamed pink for a third time, but this time it wasn't from embarrassment.

XXX

"Christine, you are looking positively radiant today," Dr. Stevenson remarked the next morning. He came over and sat in the empty chair next to me. Alejandra was on vacation, so it was just the two of us and would be all week. "It's been a while since I've seen you smile like this."

Ordinarily, his comments and attempts to pry into my personal life would have made me uncomfortable, but I was in too good of a mood to let it bother me today.

"I finally finished my countertop. _And_ I learned how to do grout," I told him, beaming.

"That's fantastic!" he replied. "Do you have any pictures?"

Nodding, I grabbed my purse from the floor and took out my phone and showed him.

"Impressive," he whistled. "I don't know the first thing about this sort of stuff." He handed the phone back to me. "But you are obviously very proud of your new skill. So, tell me, how did you learn how to do the grout?"

"My friend."

"Well, it looks great." He crossed his legs and laced his fingers over his knee. "And how are you doing, otherwise? It's been a while since we've been able to talk. Did our last conversation help any?"

I stuffed the phone back into my purse and dropped it back to the floor, my thoughts drifting back to that day at the bistro. So much had happened since that afternoon. It seemed like Erik and I had been on a roller coaster of discovery and setback ever since, but we had finally made a breakthrough and it wouldn't have happened without that epiphany.

"Yes," I said honestly. "It helped a lot. Thank you."

"I'm glad."

We heard the door to the outer vestibule open.

"Looks like we're about to get busy again," Dr. Stevenson said, getting up. "I'll let you get back to work. You let me know if you need anything else."

XXX

I was exhausted by the end of the day. Covering both positions was a lot of work, trying to juggle the people on the phone and those in the office, plus working on billing and filing patients' charts in between. The last thing I wanted to do was come home and clean up the mess I left in the kitchen.

The sensible part of me argued that it wouldn't take too much time and then I'd finally be able to use it again. But the lazier side of me pointed out that that meant hauling the boxes of leftover tile, powdered grout, and all the tools though the rain and back out to the shed, and I didn't think I had it in me tonight.

I'd been going balls to the walls for a while now, I reasoned. I deserved a night off.

The lazier side eventually won out. I decided to treat myself by grabbing some Chinese takeout on the way home, and then did something I hadn't done in a long time; I turned off the lights, turned on the gas fireplace, and settled in with a good book.

I must have fallen asleep because I woke sometime later with my e-reader resting flat against my chest. Scrubbing my palms over my face with a sleepy groan, I sat up and tried to gauge how much time had passed.

Erik was standing in front of the hearth, gazing steadily into the flickering flames. The soft light from the fire bathed his shadowy figure in its warm amber glow. Every so often, he would move slightly, and the intricate beading on his cloak would sparkle as it caught the light.

"Penny for your thoughts," I asked quietly.

"I had forgotten how comforting a fire could be." I inhaled sharply as he pivoted around. The orange firelight bounced off his mask and dark hair and illuminated his eyes, turning them the same yellow-gold color as the flames. "Christine and I used to sit in front of the fire after our lessons."

I sat up even further and pulled my legs up, crossing them underneath me. "What were your lessons like?"

At first, I didn't think he was going to answer me. But we had both agreed that in order to get anywhere, Erik would need to openly talk about Christine and his past, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. That being said, I also never knew how far I could push him before he became defensive and irritable.

"It was the one time that we were truly in harmony," he replied. "When we sang, everything else was forgotten. There was only music, and for those few precious moments, we would be as one. One heart, one soul, one purpose."

Their connection when they sang sounded so intimate that I almost felt like I was intruding.

"Is music really that powerful?" I mused, and it wasn't until I saw Erik's eyes narrow that I realized I had said that out loud.

"Oh, yes. Music is one of the purest forms of expression out there. Through music, you can convey happiness, sadness, anger, hope, and so much more."

I thought about some of my favorite songs. Most of them had an underlying theme, but I had never stopped to think about whether or not the artist was really feeling those things at the time they wrote it, or if they just wrote it because their label demanded they put out so many songs in a certain amount of time.

I'm pretty sure Erik could tell I wasn't getting it, because he said, "Haven't you ever _felt_ the music?"

I shook my head 'no.' "What do you mean by feel?"

"Put your heart and soul into it, release control and let it completely overwhelm you."

Wow. Suddenly I felt very self-conscious about my superficial music-listening habits.

Shaking my head again slowly, I replied, "No. I just listen because I like the songs. I've never really spent too much time analyzing it beyond that. I didn't know you could get all that out of it. But then again, I don't sing or play an instrument, either. "I spread my hands. "So maybe I don't have the ability to feel the music like you do." A stray thought popped into my head, and before I could contemplate all the possible consequences of such a question, I asked, "Would you show me?"

Erik looked momentarily taken aback and for a second, I thought my ill-conceived request would be swiftly met with an angry denial. So, I was surprised when his shoulders drooped, and his hands suddenly clenched into fists at his sides.

"I cannot," he answered. "I haven't been able to touch an instrument since I died."

The longing in his voice was evident.

"You could sing," I suggested innocently.

He stiffened and I instantly knew that I had finally crossed the line. "That is one thing I shall never do," he replied curtly. "Those memories are still far too pain. Please. Don't ask that of me again."

"I understand."

I understood, but deep down I was still quietly disappointed. Erik's speaking voice was unlike anything I had ever heard before. I could only imagine how it sounded when he sang. Suddenly I was irrationally angry with Christine, for having robbed him of something he had obviously loved very much.

I immediately felt guilty as soon as I thought that. There were still things I avoided because they reminded me of Ben. I couldn't blame Erik for not wanting to conjure up all those feelings again.

XXX

I was just switching off my computer for the night when Dr. Stevenson came out of his office and locked the door behind him.

"Got any fun plans for the weekend?" he asked. "I mean, now that you've finished your countertop?"

"Uhhh, no. I haven't given it much thought," I said. My heart kicked in to overdrive, ramming against my chest like it knew something I didn't. "You?"

"My brother and his wife are in town. I thought that maybe I would take them out and show them around. Any suggestions?"

"I don't know. It depends on what they're in to, I guess. A club, the movies, a play…." I shrugged. I still couldn't figure out why he was asking me this.

"Hmm, the club sounds like a good idea. They have two young children at home and haven't had a night out in a long time. I bet you they would love a chance to kick back and relax and maybe have a few drinks. Do you favor a particular venue over the others?"

"I like O'Malley's. They're not a club. It's restaurant with a full bar, so you get the excitement of a club, but you can also sit and enjoy a conversation over dinner if you want."

Jake smiled. "That sounds perfect. Thanks for the advice."

"No problem."

He collected his coat and waited while I grabbed my purse and slung it over my shoulder before he led me out of the waiting area and to the exit.

"We'll probably be there Saturday night," he said, catching my eye as he held the outer door open for me, "if you wanted to swing by and say hi."

"I'll keep that in mind," I hedged.

It wasn't until I got to my car that I finally let out the breath I'd been holding. Was I just reading too much in to it, or did my boss just try to ask me out on a date? Or, at the very least, tried testing the waters to see if I was interested.

I was treading into dangerous territory. I really didn't like the idea of dating someone I worked with, especially the guy who signed my paychecks. But I was lonely, and my friends were right; I needed to stop thinking about Ben and move on with my life. And a part of me _really_ wanted to say yes.

XXX

I was still thinking about it the next day.

At present, I didn't have any other plans for tonight, and I wasn't sure if I had the energy to start stripping the varnish from my kitchen cabinets. The idea of taking a break from all the remodeling was definitely appealing.

What could it hurt if I stopped by for a quick drink? It's not like I was committing to anything.

Thankfully I was saved from having to make a decision by the severe lack of food in the house. Grocery shopping was one thing I absolutely hated to do, and so I usually put it off until the last possible minute. However, I had cleaned out the last of my reserves the previous night, so it was either go now or risk starvation.

The traffic lights were out at the intersection of 3rd and Main, causing the traffic to back up. Using the steering wheel for leverage, I pulled myself up and craned my neck to peer over the car in front of me to how fast people were getting through it. Nothing immediately jumped out at me, and so I slumped back into my seat with an aggravated sigh. I hated being stuck in traffic almost as much as I hated grocery shopping, and now it was too late to turn around.

As a way to occupy myself and keep my mind off the traffic jam, I started reading the signs of all the businesses surrounding me.

The McRib was back. Good to know.

BOGO at Tanner's Shoe Outlet. Ooh. I'd have to remember that.

Happy hour from 2:00-4:00 PM at Smoothie Heaven. All smoothies half-price.

The Symphony was playing tonight. Huh. Maybe that's where I should have sent Dr. Stevenson and his family. They were probably the type that would enjoy 'an evening of classical music,' as the sign read.

My fingers stopped tapping on the steering wheel.

I knew someone else who would probably really enjoy that. It was too bad Erik couldn't go.

My heart skipped a beat.

What if he _could_ go? There was nothing saying he couldn't. After all, Danica had told me that he had the ability to follow me if he wanted to. Would he?

There was only one way to find out.

Once I finally made it through the light, I made a right turn and drove toward the Margaret Woodall Center for Performing Arts. It wasn't hard to find a single seat, tucked away in the corner in the very back of the hall. I gave the woman at the box office my credit card, thanked her, and hurried back to my car so I could rush home and get ready.

I didn't waste any time once I got there. Slamming the front door behind me, I raced up the stairs, threw my purse on my bed, and beelined for my closet. I was certain that I still had the Little Black Dress I used to wear on special evenings out with Ben.

There!

Yanking it off the hanger, I held it up against the front of me and hoped to hell it still fit.

XXX

It seemed like in every romantic comedy I watched, there was always a scene where the woman would slowly walk down the stairs in her gorgeous evening gown and the man who was waiting for her at the bottom would be stunned into speechlessness by her ravishing beauty.

That wasn't me.

I was a bundle of nerves, pacing around my small bedroom trying to figure out what in the hell had possessed me to do this.

I should have just gone out to the bar.

Unfortunately, I didn't have time to sit around and argue with myself. The concert started in less than an hour and I still had to drive back there. I needed to decide if I was really going to do this or not.

Smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in my black dress, I took a deep breath and forced my feet to take me out of the bedroom.

XXX

I was examining the craftsmanship of the kitchen cabinets when I heard her call my name.

"Erik? Where are you?"

"In the kitchen."

Her crisp footsteps announced her arrival.

"I have inspected these cabinets," I said, my attention still on the cupboards in front of me, "and I have concluded that they are indeed real wood. You should be able to strip and re-finish them with no issues."

"That's great. Ummm…Erik?"

I turned around. Christine was standing in the doorway wearing a tight, off-the-shoulder black dress. The delicate lacy material ended just above her knees, revealing sleek legs that looked twice as long because of the somewhat caged design of the heels she wore.

"You look…." It wasn't very often that I was at a loss for words. "Very nice. I assume you have plans for this evening?"

"Yes." She wrapped her hands around her upper arms self-consciously. "I have something to ask you."

Something about the uncertainty in her tone immediately put me on edge. I folded my arms and waited expectantly for her to continue.

"Do you remember when Danica told me that you could follow me outside the house if you chose to?"

"Vaguely," I replied. Honestly, I had been too upset by my sudden appearance in the shop and the ideas that the medium was planting ideas in her head to give that part much more than a passing thought.

"Well…." She twisted my ring around on her finger. "I'd like you to follow me tonight."

I scanned her profile again and then narrowed my eyes. "Where?"

"It's a…." Christine cleared her throat. "I want it to be a surprise."

Underneath my mask, my expression hardened. "You will find that I am not overly fond of surprises."

What remained of her courage evaporated before my very eyes and she seemed to shrink in on herself. "It's nothing bad, I promise," she stammered. "You're not obligated to accompany me. I just thought…thought you might like to get out of the house. That's all."

She readjusted the strap of her small clutch on her shoulder and then ducked her head, rushing out of the kitchen before I even had a chance to respond, leaving me staring at the empty spot where she had been standing only moments before.

XXX

"What a stupid idea!" I muttered as I climbed into my Jeep and sped out of the driveway. Tears of embarrassment pricked at the back of my eyes, threatening to spill over at any second.

I sucked in a deep breath. I wasn't going to cry. I wasn't. For starters, it would ruin my makeup and make my face all blotchy. And besides that, I knew this outcome was a possibility when I bought that damned ticket in the first place.

Why hadn't I just told him the truth? Being cryptic about it had only put him on edge and made him suspicious of my intentions. My decision to take the coward's way out very well could have sabotaged my own plans.

I considered turning around and heading to O'Malley's or calling the girls to see if they wanted to do something instead. Anything to keep me from going home and having to face Erik.

I suddenly had to laugh at my own ridiculousness. Why was I letting it bother me so much? It's not like I'd asked him on a date and was now suffering the sting of rejection. If I put myself in his place, would I want to go?

Seeing things from his perspective made me feel a lot better. Taking another deep breath, a cleansing one this time, I steered my car toward the concert hall. I'd already spent money on the ticket and gone through the motions to get all dressed up. I might as well go. Who knows, I might even enjoy it.

XXX

The gentle hum of the string section warming up greeted me as I followed the usher into the dim auditorium and found my way to my seat. Occasionally one of the horns would punctuate the steady buzz and every so often someone in the woodwind section would run up and down a scale. I hadn't been to the symphony since grade school, and the sights and sounds quickly brought back a flood of fond memories of simpler times.

The seat I had chosen was located next to the wall in the far back corner on the ground floor. When the usher stopped and gestured down the aisle, I was delighted to discover that a large concrete pillar blocked the view of the seat next to me, basically rendering it unusable.

The overhead lights flickered, and a hush fell over the crowd as people hurried to take their seats before the concert began. A few minutes later the orchestra came to life and the hall was filled with music.

I spent that first part listening carefully to each movement, trying to understand what Erik was talking about when he said I needed to feel the music. It was pretty enough; I'd give it that—although I wasn't really a big fan of classical music—but overall the concept was still lost on me.

After a while my mind started to wander, and I felt myself zoning out. While the orchestra played on in the background, the pieces they were performing started influencing my thoughts. Without realizing it, I began creating scenes in my head that went along with the music I was hearing. And then, almost unconsciously, I started associating bits and pieces with my own life. The wonder and excitement of my budding relationship with Ben. The devastation that I felt when I learned he was cheating on me. During one of the darker pieces, I imagined Erik back when he was alive, and how he must have felt when he tutored Christine. The love, the hope, the pain of rejection….

My chest suddenly constricted.

This was what he meant.

To express feelings _through_ music. To use it as a catalyst to convey emotions that would otherwise fall short and not mean as much if communicated by simple words or gestures. To feel so passionate about something that you felt it in every fiber of your being.

I finally understood it, because now I felt it, too.

No wonder he missed this so much.

A sharp intake of breath sliced right over the music, but surprisingly no one else around me so much as turned their head. Glancing around, I tried to identify the source of the noise and found Erik standing silently against the wall, his eyes riveted to the stage.

 _How is that even possible? Ghosts don't breathe._

He was completely engrossed, which allowed me to stare at him unabashedly. His fists, which had been clenched at his sides at first, slowly uncurled as his body swayed slightly to the music. His eyes, my main method for judging his thoughts, were closed, and on his lips, he wore a hint of a smile.

I grinned as a feeling of warmth pooled in the bottom of my belly. He was enjoying himself.

He stayed like that through several pieces. By that time, I had forgotten all about the people playing on the stage, content just to watch his reactions to the subtle changes in the music.

The current piece came to an end and Erik turned, searching through the darkness for me. Our eyes met, his questioning at first. I smiled and nodded softly. As realization set in that I had done this for him, they took on a glassy appearance. He blinked and squared his shoulders and when he looked at me again, his eyes were ablaze with unspoken appreciation and gratitude. Still holding my gaze captive, he nodded his thanks and the warmth in the pit of my stomach suddenly burst into flames.

* * *

 **Thank you all for your amazing support and feedback! Every bit of it is treasured! I will be responding to this chapter and last chapter's reviews very soon!**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for their continued support. I've loved reading all your comments and sharing your excitement about what's going on in the story.

FYI - possible **trigger warning** for a physical altercation that takes place within this chapter.

Thanks again for reading! I look forward to hearing what you think!

~Jamie

* * *

 **Chapter 15**

I drove home in silence. Nothing on the radio could really compare to what I had just experienced and listening to it would only muddle my thoughts even more. I wanted my head as free of distractions as possible so that I could reflect upon the events of that evening.

My heart sped up even just thinking about the moment Erik appeared.

I was almost certain I'd seen tears cloud his eyes, and the thought of knowing how much my gesture meant to him was enough to make that warm feeling course through me all over again. But it was the penetrating gaze that immediately followed it that I couldn't stop thinking about.

How was it possible to convey that many emotions in one look? In the span of a few moments, he had communicated so much: astonishment, gratitude, appreciation, and a hunger for more. It made me shiver just thinking about it.

I was still lost in my thoughts when I walked through the front door. Erik was waiting for me in the hallway.

"Hi," I said weakly, for lack of anything better to say. I hadn't anticipated this being so awkward.

"What you did…. Words cannot express…." He laced his extraordinarily long fingers together and placed them over his chest, looking down at the floor as he continued, "Thank you."

I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.

"You're welcome, Erik. After our last conversation it was pretty evident how much you missed music. I just wanted to give a little bit of it back to you."

He raised his eyes slowly and once again pegged me with that smoldering stare.

Something fluttered in my chest.

We stared at each other, neither of us sure what to say or do next. Finally, he gave a slight bow and said, "Goodnight, mademoiselle."

It wasn't until after he had disappeared and I was left standing alone in the front room that I whispered back, "Goodnight, Erik."

XXX

I could count on one hand how many times someone had done anything for me purely for my benefit. The Daroga saving my life in Persia was one of them. As such, I was awed and humbled and shaken by her gesture all at the same time.

I had experienced the feeling of elated satisfaction when Christine finally broke free of the chains of despair that had shackled her to the ground and her voice soared under my guidance, but that feeling was nothing compared to how I felt now.

Is this what true happiness felt like?

XXX

As the days went on, Erik and I fell into a steady, comfortable rhythm. Most of the time he joined me in the kitchen at night as I worked, continuing to offer me guidance in some areas and interjecting hilariously dry comments in others.

Occasionally I would try to find reasons to bring up Christine and his past, but he would always carefully steer the conversation back to safer topics and I would give up for a time, too afraid that doing so would ruin the precarious peace that had formed between us.

"What do you think about this floor?" I randomly asked Erik one night after work.

True to my nature, I couldn't stay idle for long and had decided to take the plunge re-stain the cabinets.

He glanced from me to the floor and then back up again. "I beg your pardon?"

"The floor. Personally, I think there's too much tile in here now and feel like hardwood would be a more accurate representation of how the house used to look back in the old days. But I want your opinion."

"You won't like it," he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Raising my eyebrows, I set the screwdriver I'd been using to take the hinges off the cabinet doors down on the counter. "Oh?" I said, folding my arms over my chest. "How come?"

"This house has been altered so many times that there is barely anything left that I would even remotely call original. The bannister on the staircase and the crown moulding on the walls, perhaps, but that's about it."

I frowned. "Okay, obviously the addition of electricity and upgrading all the appliances has changed things over the years, but you're saying there's been substantial alterations to the structure itself?"

Erik nodded.

"Like what?"

"This kitchen is a prime example. Houses like this one didn't have wall-mounted cupboards and countertops back in their day. Most still had sideboards and hutches. In the more well-to-do homes, they may have had porcelain sinks mounted to the wall, but the majority still used freestanding sinks and washbasins."

"Oh. Well…shit," I laughed, gazing around the kitchen. "So much for that, I guess."

"For what it's worth," he added, "I think you've done a marvelous job, and hardwood would look gorgeous in here."

I grinned. "That's exactly what I was thinking."

XXX

That following Friday, Maddie sent me a text just as I was getting ready for bed.

M: _I know it's late and short notice, but you could girls meet me for coffee tomorrow?_

C: _Sure. Where?_

R: _Let's try that new coffee house on Main!_

M: _Okay. 10 AM?_

C: _Works for me._

M: _Great! See you both then._

Maddie and Rochelle were waiting for me inside the Perk You Up coffee shop the next morning. Although the rain had stopped and the sky was a cloudless blue, the air was bitterly cold.

"Morning," I greeted. I slid into the booth next to Rochelle, wrapping both my hands around my pumpkin spice latte to warm them up after being outside.

"I met someone!" Maddie blurted as soon as I sat down. She was grinning from ear to ear, her eyes sparkling like diamonds in the sun, full of all the excitement that came with starting a new relationship. "His name's Edward—Eddie for short—and I can't wait for you to meet him!"

"That's wonderful!" Rochelle exclaimed. "How did you two meet?"

"At the gym. We're in the same kickboxing class."

That made perfect sense. The gym was like Maddie's second home.

"We started talking about workout routines and swapped recipes for healthy dinners and smoothies and before I knew it, we were checking out vegan restaurants downtown once or twice a week."

"That sounds amazing," I sighed dreamily. Well, maybe not the vegan restaurant part, but the dating part in general.

Maddie took a sip of her chai tea and then extended both her hands, one to each of us. "I'm sorry if I've been a terrible friend and haven't kept in touch lately."

"You haven't been," I hurriedly assured her, patting her hand. "I think it's awesome you found someone, and I am looking forward to meeting him."

"We should all go out to dinner one night!" Rochelle suggested. "Does he have any cute friends?"

"That does sound like fun!" Maddie replied. "I'll ask him and maybe we can set something up for next weekend."

XXX

I was quiet and contemplative for the rest of the day. Not even the prospect of working on my project was enough to pull me out of my funk. I did so anyway, though, just to keep my mind focused on something else.

What was wrong with me? I should be ecstatic for Maddie. It had been ages since she'd had a boyfriend. She had been my rock throughout my entire marriage and subsequent divorce from Ben. I needed to return the favor and be supportive for her, not jealous that she had found someone new and I hadn't.

If anyone was being a terrible friend, it was me.

That realization only pushed me even deeper into my melancholy.

XXX

The rest of the weekend flew by and before I knew it, it was Sunday evening. I had made considerable headway on my cabinets. All of the doors had been removed and were now stacked on the kitchen table, each one waiting for its turn on the sawhorses so I could strip off the old stain and sand it down to the bare wood. I was really putting that old power sander of Dad's to good use and was already about a third of the way done.

As the high-pitched whirr of the sander wound down, I thought I heard another sound. I paused, letting the sander hover in the air above the door as I strained to listen. The soft tinkling of my ringtone filtered back to me. Huh. I must have left my phone in the front room.

I set the sander down on top of the cabinet door and hurried out of the kitchen to find it before the ringing stopped. Sure enough, my phone was lying face down on the couch. Picking it up, I dusted it off and turned it over.

I frowned. Ben had called. Several times.

My heart skipped a beat. We hadn't spoken since the night he came over to help me put the plywood in the window. Why was he calling now?

 _It doesn't matter_ , the hopeful part of my heart all but screamed. _He's calling you. He's no longer angry. See what he wants!_

Biting my lip, I selected his number from the missed call list and listened as it rang.

"Hello?"

I closed my eyes, savoring the sound of his deep voice as it resonated through the speaker.

"Hi," I replied, somewhat breathlessly. "Sorry I missed all your calls. I was sanding and didn't hear my phone over all the noise."

"Working on another project?"

He was being fairly amiable and talkative tonight, I thought. Usually he wasn't interested in what I was doing. Naturally, I pounced on the opportunity to have a normal conversation with him.

"Yeah. You know me; I can't seem to sit still for too long. I've decided to stain the cabinets in the kitchen a darker color. I think they'll look better with the new countertop than the oak ones do."

Ben let out a soft chuckle. "Yep, that sounds like you."

I gripped the phone a little tighter and smiled, my cheeks reddening as I basked in the attention he was giving me.

"You should come over one night and check out all the work I've done in there."

"Yeah. About that." He cleared his throat. "Listen, Chris. I need to tell you something."

The blood pounded in my ears. Something was wrong. He usually only used that tone when he was really serious. Did something happen between him and Carly?

"What is it?"

"I wanted you to hear it from me, first."

My grip tightened on the phone again, but this time it wasn't accompanied by the giddy anticipation that I had felt the first time.

"Carly and I went away for the weekend…."

The smile slid off my face.

"We umm…well, we went to Vegas."

 _No._ I shook my head silently. _Please don't finish that sentence._

"And we…we got married."

It was like he had just kicked me right in the gut. I couldn't breathe.

"You did what?"

Why was he telling me this? Did he get some sort of sick pleasure out of rubbing it in that he was happy with his new life? Did he call me just to gloat?

"We got married. And there's one more thing. It makes Carly really uncomfortable when I talk to you, so I need you to stop calling me all the time, okay, Chris. Hello? Are you still there?"

I let the phone fall back to the couch. I think I hung up, but I wasn't sure. I didn't care enough to check. All I wanted to do was get as far away from it as possible. I tore around the couch and was out the door before I even knew what I was doing. Hot tears stung my eyes and clouded my vision as I ran down the front steps and into the dark street.

Married! He'd married her. How could he do that? _Why_ would he do that! What did she have to offer that I hadn't already given him?

The still night air was fractured by sounds of my pathetic crying. I ran until my chest burned, but it was impossible to tell whether it was due to the physical exertion or from the intensity of my sobs.

It was over. He was gone and now I was never going to win him back.

"Ben!" I wailed, clutching my stomach as I doubled over. "Why? Oh god, why wasn't I good enough for you?"

I don't know how long I stayed like that, but eventually I collected enough of my wits about me to realize that I was standing outside in the cold without a coat and that I had no clue where I was. Swiping the tears off my cheeks I reluctantly retraced my steps back to the house. I was freezing by the time I got there, shivering so hard that I could barely wrap my hand around the door knob. I gave it a savage twist and damn near broke my wrist when it refused to budge. I tried a second and third time, wiggling it back and forth, but that didn't change the fact that it was locked tight.

"Fuck!" I shouted, slamming my shoulder against the wooden door in a feeble attempt to wedge it open.

I slid down the length of the door. Now what was I going to do? I didn't have my keys, and my phone was still inside on the couch because I had to be dramatic and run off without it! I couldn't even call an emergency locksmith for help. And yelling for Erik wouldn't do any good. It's not like he would be able to open the door for me.

It was really tempting to sit on my ass on the front porch and cry about everything some more but that wasn't going to open my door and it wasn't getting any warmer.

Unfortunately, I was in the habit of keeping all my doors locked when I was home, so I knew there wasn't a chance the back door would be open. The same went for all the windows. In fact, all the ones on the ground level had a dowel of wood in the sills as an added deterrent.

Wood….

I scrambled to my feet and jogged around to the side of the house where the boarded-up window in the dining room was located. With enough force, I should be able to kick it in. I hated the thought of what it might do to the window frame on the inside, but considering the alternative was to stand out here and freeze, I was left with little choice.

I wasted a few moments wheeling the garbage can from the back of the house over to the window so I could climb on top of it. Once I had settled myself on the lid, I placed both my feet flat against the plywood, and with a resigned sigh, kicked with all my might.

XXX

The sudden crack of splintering wood echoed through the otherwise silent house and immediately caught my attention, for it sounded nothing at all like the usual sounds of construction that I had been listening to all day.

Christine was nowhere to be seen but given the lateness of the hour that wasn't all that unusual. It was a Sunday night, and she usually liked to retire early in order to prepare for the upcoming work week.

My senses now on full alert, I slowly crept down the darkened hallway, following the sound of pounding until it brought me into the dining room. I turned to corner just in time to witness the board that was covering the window split into two separate pieces and crash to the ground. My hand instinctively sought the hidden pocket inside my cloak where I kept the Punjab lasso and as soon as my fingers closed around the sinewy piece of catgut, I sprang into action.

XXX

It had taken considerably more effort than I thought it would to break the board enough that I could get in, mostly because the frigid air had sapped all my strength. As soon as I heard the plywood hit the ground, I clambered off the garbage can and cautiously climbed through the open window and into the pitch-black dining room beyond.

Before my feet had even touched the ground, two large hands emerged from the shadows and seized me by my shoulders. Startled, I tried to cry out, but my protests were quickly silenced as I was yanked the rest of the way through the window. The stranger expertly deflected my weak attempts to defend myself and in one quick motion he spun me around and slipped a small wire cord around my throat. Pulling it taut, he forced me backward until my back was flush with the hard outline of his chest.

My fight-or-flight instinct immediately kicked into high gear, leaving me no time to think about how someone had gotten into the house when all the doors were locked. Clawing at the wire with both my hands, I tried to tug it away from my neck, and dug my heels into the floor to slow him down as he dragged me away from the window. But my feet couldn't find purchase on the slippery hardwood, and all my shoes did was squeak against the surface as he hauled me backwards. Although I thrashed wildly against him, all my efforts to free myself were in vain. The more I moved, the more he was able to restrain me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, tears of panic coursing down my cheeks. The wire pinched against my wind pipe, making it hard to catch my breath. It was becoming hard to think clearly and my limbs felt heavy and uncooperative. Soon, the edges of my vision began to blur.

Sensing that my will to fight back was rapidly dwindling, my assailant adjusted his grip, twisting his wrists so that he could increase the pressure of his stranglehold, his entire body tensing as he moved in for the kill.

"You have made a grave mistake," he taunted in the most frightening voice I had ever heard. "One that you will now pay dearly for—with your life."

My eyes snapped open. It was almost unrecognizable in its terrifying deadliness, but I knew that voice!

I knew then that it was probably my last chance. I took a deep breath, the action causing the cord to cut into my skin, and sputtered, "Erik!"

His hands instantly sprang open and the wire fell to the ground at my feet. I stumbled forward, eagerly gulping down several large breaths of air. My head was spinning, both from the lack of oxygen and from sheer relief, and I most certainly would have collapsed if Erik hadn't caught me by the shoulders and whirled me around to face him.

"Christine!" he cried in alarm. "Oh, Christine, please forgive me! I didn't know it was you! Did I hurt you?"

Without waiting for me to answer, he dragged me out of the dining room and into the hallway, where the light from the kitchen was bright enough that he could see me. Cupping my cheeks with both his hands, he gingerly tilted my head back so he could get a better look at my neck. His fingertips were light and gentle as they slid past my jaw and down the column of my throat to probe at the tender, swollen flesh. He uttered another small cry, remorse flickering briefly across his eyes before they suddenly slanted in rage.

"You foolish girl!" he shouted, once again clutching my upper arms so that I would be forced to meet his fiery gaze. "What the hell were you thinking?! I could have killed you!"

Something inside me snapped. My emotions were already running at an all-time high thanks to the massive amounts of adrenaline pumping through my system, and Erik yelling at me was the last thing I needed.

"Don't be stupid!" I fired back, wrenching myself from his grasp. "You can't kill me! You're a ghost. You can't even touch me!"

I froze.

But he had touched me…the proof of it was still burning around my neck. I brought my hand to the base of my throat, remembering not only the way the cord bit into my skin, but also how soft and real his fingers felt when he'd lifted my chin to assess the damage he'd done to my throat.

Reality came crashing down on me like a ton of bricks. A few more seconds and I would have been dead, strangled at the hands of a ghost whose physical interactions had, up until that moment, been spotty at best.

Erik took a step towards me, his hand outstretched in concern.

I backed away, slowly shaking my head from side to side. "It isn't…."

My stomach somersaulted at the same time the hallway tipped on its side. I wobbled; my body suddenly too heavy for my knees to support the weight. They buckled and everything around me went black.


	16. Chapter 16

16

When I came to, I was laying on the floor, and for a terrible moment, I didn't know where I was or how I ended up on ground. Covering my face with both palms, I scrubbed my eyes, thinking that if I cleared the haziness out of them, it might also somehow chase away the fog inside my head.

After a few seconds, the grogginess thankfully began to subside. Letting out a low groan, I pushed myself up on my elbows so that I could look around and figure out what was going on.

"Don't move." Erik's smooth voice slithered through the darkness, his softly spoken words coiling around me in a way that I found both oddly comforting and hard to ignore. I complied, letting my shoulders relax and my back flatten against the cold hardwood. "You fainted. You are still weak and should take a moment to get your bearings."

"What?" I frowned, passing my fingers along my brow line. This was twice, now. I wasn't some nineteenth-century damsel in distress who fainted at the drop of a hat; passing out wasn't a normal thing for me. "Why?"

He was strangely silent, and his refusal to answer such a simple question immediately put me on edge. A knot began to form in the pit of my stomach. What was wrong? What wasn't he telling me?

"Erik?" In spite of his earlier warning, I pushed myself up on my elbows again in an attempt to locate him.

At that exact same moment, several frightening images flashed through my mind. A thin piece of wire. Desperately fighting for my life. Erik's terrifying voice, threatening my imminent death.

My hand flew to my throat and I gasped when the pressure from my exploring fingertips sent a twinge of pain rippling across the injured skin.

"It wasn't a dream…," I whispered.

There was a slight rustle of fabric as he slowly emerged from the shadows. His sudden appearance struck an irrational chord of fear in my chest, and out of pure reflex I reeled backwards, desperate to put space between us. In that moment, swathed in darkness, hands balled into tight fists at his sides, he looked every bit the menacing Angel of Death that Christine had so vividly described in the book. I tried to tell myself that it was utterly ridiculous to be afraid of him. He was my friend. But my resolve abruptly faltered as I recalled the first time we'd met face-to-face and how truly terrified I had been as he towered over me and demanded that I tell him how I knew the things I knew.

The knot in my stomach tripled in size.

He had come so close to ending my life, and that instinct had come to him as naturally as breathing. What was worse, it was painfully clear from the calm, detached, and methodical way he had twisted that cord around my neck that he had taken a life that way many, many times. For the first time in months, I wondered who exactly I was dealing with, and how in the hell I had forgotten how dangerous he was.

XXX

"It wasn't a dream…."

I turned away, clenching my hands to try to contain the anger that rushed through my body as I watched her scramble away from me. The look of panicked comprehension on her face and the horror in her voice said it all. Without warning, I was suddenly thrown back in time, to a moment when another woman of the same name finally saw me for the monster I truly was.

" _Please don't kill them, Erik! I'll do anything!"_

" _Anything?" I echoed, peering down at the small fingers clutching at my sleeve. With calm detachment, I plucked her hand from my arm. "Anything, you say? Would you even go so far as to be my wife?"_

" _Yes! Yes!" Christine hastily agreed. "I'll do anything you say. Let them out and I'll marry you tonight."_

" _Oh, my dear," I chuckled lowly. "Desperation has made you foolish. I don't think you quite understand what you're agreeing to."_

" _I understand. I do! Just please…please don't let them die."_

I closed my eyes, shoving the memory back into the dark recesses of my mind, where it belonged.

This wasn't the first time I had tried to kill someone I called a friend. The Daroga had been in the torture chamber that night as well, and at the time I hadn't given his impending death more than a passing thought. He had merely been collateral damage, an unfortunate victim caught up in circumstances beyond his control. Just like Christine had almost been tonight. Apparently, my own death hadn't tempered my murderous instincts.

Disgusted with myself and suddenly angry at her for bringing me to this point, I swooped down upon her like a giant bird of prey, trying not to notice how she flinched when I drew near.

"No, it wasn't a dream!" I snarled back at her spitefully. "I very nearly succeeded in ending your life! Do you even realize how lucky you are that I stopped when I did? Your blood would have been on my hands, and for what? What in God's name were you doing out there?"

"I was locked out!" she screamed back at me. In seconds, she was on her feet and had bridged the small gap between us, bringing her face defiantly close to mine as she thrust her hand in the direction of the dining room. "It was freezing outside, and I had no way to call for help!" She took a step forward, forcing me to retreat in order to maintain adequate distance between her and my mask. "What else was I supposed to do? Sit out there and wait on the porch until someone noticed that I was slowly turning into a popsicle? Wait for you to realize I was gone and come looking for me? And then what? You're a goddamn ghost! It's not like you could've opened the door for me! So yeah, I broke in. The only thing I was thinking about was getting inside where it was warm, not that I was going to be attacked in my own home by someone who I thought was my friend!"

The world around me narrowed to a pinpoint as blind fury exploded in my chest, spreading out through my veins like molten lava. It was bad enough that my instinctive need for space had caused me to lose precious ground, making it seem like I was submitting to her weak attempts at intimidation, but the razor-sharp accusation behind her scathing retort cut right to the bone and slashed clean through what remained of my self-control.

XXX

Erik's eyes crackled with fire as he let out a primal growl.

"I thought you were an intruder!" he roared.

My heart leapt into my throat as he squared his shoulders, straightening up to his full height before he deliberately advanced toward me. Each step he took radiated with barely contained anger, and I was suddenly afraid that one wrong word, one careless movement, might cause him to snap.

"Who else would be coming through your window at this time of night?" he demanded, mimicking my earlier gesture by flinging his hand in the direction of the open dining room window. "I had no reason to suspect that it was you! In that moment all I saw was a threat. Damn it, Christine!" He grabbed my shoulders, halting my backwards retreat. "Do you even realize how close I came to killing you? If you hadn't said something when you did, I—"

With a stifled sigh, he let go of me and stepped back, leaving the sentence unfinished and hanging in the air between us.

"I'm sorry," I whispered tremulously. It was all I could think to say. I could feel the sting of fresh tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. Gazing up at the ceiling I tried my best to hold them back, but the events of the past few hours proved too much for me to handle, and they spilled forth, cutting an uneven path as they zigzagged down my checks and dripped off my chin. "If Ben hadn't called and gotten me all worked up, I wouldn't have run outside like an idiot and we wouldn't be in this mess."

The heat in Erik's eyes slowly cooled as he studied me, and a frown centered on his bottom lip. "You shouldn't need to apologize," he said, the soft, musical lilt returning to his voice. "It is I who should be begging for your forgiveness. I overreacted. I hurt you and for that I am truly sorry. It was never my intention…." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry that you had to see that side of me."

The regret in his voice was obvious, and in the wake of such openly displayed remorse it was hard to stay angry at him. Whatever he may have been all those years ago when he'd taken up the mantle of Opera Ghost, when he'd done everything in his power to rightfully earn his reviled reputation, it wasn't who he was now. At least to me he wasn't. I couldn't speak to how he used to be, because I hadn't known him at the time, but I was fairly certain I knew the man standing in front of me now, and I believed him when he said he never meant to hurt me.

"Thank you."

Confused, Erik cocked his head to one side. "For what?"

"For protecting me."

Without thinking, I reached out and laid my hand over his forearm. It was such an ordinary way of expressing gratitude and understanding that I didn't think anything of it until he recoiled, yanking his arm away as if I had just branded him with a hot metal poker. Only then did it occur to me that I had felt the silky fabric of his sleeve and the rigidness of skin and bone beneath my fingertips.

Erik's eyes were wide with disbelief as he nervously tugged down the front of his waistcoat.

"It's late," he muttered. "You should get some sleep."

And with that, he vanished into the night, leaving me standing alone in the dark.

XXX

As expected, I tossed and turned for hours that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Erik's black shadow lunging for me through the dark. I heard his cry of despair as he spun me around, witnessed the horror in his eyes when he realized what he'd done, and the relief in them that followed immediately afterward. And while all those things were certainly worthy of consuming my thoughts, it was the physical contact that I couldn't get out of my head.

Even now, hours later, I could still feel the pressure from his hands as they grasped my shoulders, the cool sensation of his gloved fingers sliding over my skin as he examined my neck, the firmness of his forearm when I impulsively reached out to him. It felt nothing like the first time we had made contact. This time, there wasn't a crackling, electric feeling between us. He felt as real as anyone else, and if I didn't know the truth about him being a ghost, I would have sworn that he was just as alive as any other ordinary person standing in front of me.

Did he feel it, too?

He must have, for him to pull away from me like he did. I longed to call out to him and ask. I had so many questions that needed answering. But I didn't. The whole experience had rattled him, and the least I could do was respect his privacy and let him process everything that had happened. I just hoped he wouldn't stay away too long this time.

At four-thirty I completely gave up on the pretense of trying to sleep and got out of bed to brew a pot of coffee and start getting ready for work. I hated starting the week feeling so drained, but there was really no point in forcing myself to stay in bed with my mind racing the way it was.

With a mug of steaming hot coffee in hand, I went back upstairs to get dressed. It had been a while since I'd been able to really take the time to get ready in the morning; I usually favored a few more minutes of sleep over primping myself. So at least being up this early allowed me some extra time to focus on my hair and makeup.

Flipping on the bathroom light, I walked over to the sink and set my coffee down to open the mirrored medicine cabinet and grab my toothbrush and toothpaste. I squeezed a line of toothpaste on the bristles, replaced the cap, and put the tube back on the shelf and shut the door.

"Oh my god!" I cried when I looked up and saw my reflection.

My toothbrush clinked against the porcelain sink as I let go of it and touched the dark purple ligature mark that wrapped itself around my neck.

"Oh my god, what am I going to do?!"

It looked like I had been strangled—well, I _had_ been, but now everyone else was going to know about it. How in the hell was I going to explain this?

"Okay, don't panic," I told my reflection in a voice that was clearly starting to panic. "You have some time. Think, Chris."

I seriously contemplated calling in sick and hiding in bed, but the reality of it was that it would probably take a week or more for the bruise to fade, so taking one day off really wasn't a viable solution. Plus, I had called in a lot lately, and I didn't need to add losing my job to the list of shit I was already dealing with.

There had to be some way to hide it.

"Oh!" The solution hit me almost immediately. I hightailed it out of the bathroom and over to my closet, sorting through my blouses until I found a turtleneck and a couple of scarves, all the while thanking my lucky stars that the weather had turned cold enough that wearing these pieces wouldn't draw unnecessary attention to myself.

Of course, wearing a scarf meant that I wouldn't be able to wear scrubs for a few days, but that was okay. It was a small price to pay to keep people from asking about what happened to me. Besides, wearing scrubs to work wasn't mandatory like it was in some doctor's offices. It had been my idea, borne out of laziness and a desire to take the guesswork out of getting dressed every morning. I could handle a week of dressing up.

Alejandra whistled when I walked through the door a few hours later.

"Damn, chica! What you all dressed up for?"

I had chosen a burnt orange turtleneck sweater and paired with it my favorite dark blue skinny jeans and calf-high brown heeled boots. For extra flair, I had added a long gold pendant with a huge jade stone that nestled just below my breasts and had curled my hair in loose ringlets.

I shrugged, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. "It's amazing what you can do when you get up three hours earlier than usual."

"You look good. I might have to step up my game," she said with a mock frown, pulling at slick black jacket she wore over her similarly colored scrubs. "You're making me look bad."

I laughed and slid into the seat next to her and switched on the phones.

"Good morning, ladies," Dr. Stevenson said when he walked in a few minutes later. He paused when he saw me, his eyes resembling that of an elevator as he slowly took in my appearance. I could tell he wanted to say something, but couldn't, since doing so would have pushed the boundaries of a superior-subordinate relationship.

I had expected things to be awkward between us after I failed to follow up on his invitation to O'Malley's, but to his credit, Dr. Stevenson had acted like nothing had happened. He'd been his usual cheery self and after a while I had begun to wonder if I'd been reading too much into his offer. Maybe he wasn't interested in me that way at all. I certainly didn't mind. I had made the right decision to take Erik to the symphony rather than going out for drinks with my boss and his family, and the more time that passed the more I came to the conclusion that getting involved with someone I worked with just wasn't a good idea at all.

"Morning," I quietly replied. The phone rang and I snatched it up, grateful for the distraction. "Dr. Stevenson's office."

At a quarter after ten the phones had finally quieted down enough that I could get away for a short break. I dug into my purse, pulling out my own phone, and went into the small breakroom behind the waiting room to send a text to Maddie.

 _C: Hey, I know this is super short notice, but can you go to lunch today?_

She texted back after a few minutes.

 _M: I don't know…. It's payday week and I've got a lot to do today to get payroll ready by Friday._

 _C: Please? I need to talk. It's kind of an emergency._

The phone was silent for a few more minutes. Finally, she relented.

 _M: Okay. I can probably sneak away if we go soon. Where did you have in mind?_

We decided on a little sandwich shop that was equal distance between us and agreed to meet just a little after eleven-thirty. Maddie was waiting for me when I drove into the parking lot, her back hunched and camel-colored trench coat pulled tightly around her as she stood there shivering in the wind.

"How long have you been out here?" I asked in lieu of a greeting when I walked up.

"J-just a few minutes," she stuttered. "C'mon. Let's go inside."

I just shook my head and smiled and followed her into the shop.

Because it was before the lunch rush, the inside was still relatively empty. There was a group of four older ladies in a booth in the corner and a man and woman closer to our age holding hands at a bistro table by the window. Other than that, Maddie and I had the place to ourselves.

We hurried up to the counter and ordered lunch; a tofu lettuce wrap and strawberry-banana smoothie for Maddie and half a roasted turkey sandwich with a small cup of creamy tomato basil soup for me. Once we had our trays, we sat down in a booth along with wall opposite the younger couple.

I set my tray down on the table and shimmied out of my coat, tossing it on the bench next to my purse before sliding into the seat. Maddie did the same, except she draped hers neatly over the back of the bench seat. Underneath her coat she wore a mocha brown sweater dress with a dark brown belt cinched at the waist and thick dark brown stockings and matching high heels. No wonder she was freezing.

"I like your outfit," I said.

"Thanks," she replied, pointing to me. "I was just going to say the same thing about yours. What's the occasion?"

Jesus. I needed to make more of an effort to dress up during the week if everyone seemed to think that there was a special reason why I wasn't wearing my traditional scrubs.

"No occasion. I just wanted to embrace the fall weather. That, and I couldn't sleep so I had extra time to get ready this morning."

Maddie took a bite of her lettuce wrap and scrutinized me while she chewed. "Does you not being able to sleep have anything to do with the 'emergency' you needed to talk to me about?"

"Yes." At least part of the reason, I thought as I slowly pushed the soup around the bowl with my spoon. "Ben called me last night. He told me—"

"Oh, Lord. Here we go."

I shot her a dirty look. She sighed, shaking her head.

"He called to tell me…he-he got married over the weekend."

"Seriously?" Maddie asked.

I nodded.

She threw her hands up in the air. "Well, Hallelujah! It's about damn time!"

The four older ladies glanced curiously in our direction.

I blinked. Her enthusiasm was like a knife straight to my heart. "You're _happy_ for him? Whose friend are you, anyway?"

"Yours, of course. And yes, I _am_ happy. Now you can finally move on. You've been pining for that asshole for over a year now, Chris. He's gone. It's over. And you _have_ to let go."

I pushed my tray away from me and put my elbows on the table, letting my head slump into my hands. I wasn't going to cry. Not here. Not when I had to go back to work.

"There's a great big world out there," Maddie went on, "and you're missing out on it. Right now, you're letting him ruin your life. Don't let him do that. The son-of-a-bitch doesn't deserve the satisfaction."

"I don't know how to let him go," I whispered. "I just keep thinking about all the good times we had together. I'm afraid I'm never going to find that again."

"And you won't if you continue to lock yourself up in your house night after night. You need to get out and meet new people."

I thought back to the last time I had tried to meet someone new and how I had immediately been accused of cheating on my spouse because of the gold wedding ring around my finger. I shook my head. "I'm not for that yet, Maddie."

"You'll never be ready if you keep making up excuses. You've just got to do it." She pulled out her phone and started typing as she continued, "Let me text Eddie and see what his friends are doing and if we can set something up for this weekend."

"No—!"

She paused, plastering me with a "don't argue with me" look. "I'm not saying you need to fall in love and marry the guy, Chris. I just want you to get out and have some fun. Tell you what. I'll make you a deal. If you go out with us and you absolutely hate it, I'll buy you a new pair of boots for trying. From my store, obviously, so I can get a discount," she added with a sly smile. "Sound good?"

"I don't know…."

"C'mon," Maddie cajoled. "At the very least it's a night out of the house and a free meal. You'll have a good time, I promise. Just trust me."

XXX

I was thoroughly exhausted, both mentally and physically, by the time I got home and decided to tun in early in the hopes of getting some decent sleep. My brain, however, apparently had different plans.

I thought back to my conversation with Maddie over lunch. Had I really expected her to react any other way? Maddie had always been the sensible one, the friend who didn't pull any punches and wasn't afraid to tell it like it is. Even if it meant hurting someone's feelings. But still, would it have killed her to show a little empathy? It was easy for her to tell me to get over Ben and move on; her relationship with Eddie was still brand new. Everything was still rose-colored in her world. She had no idea what I was going through.

Sighing, I tossed the covers aside and climbed out of bed. If I didn't start sleeping soon, I was going to have to resort to taking sleeping pills, and that just opened up a whole new can of worms. Padding quietly down the stairs with bare feet, I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of wine and went into the living room. Then I curled up on the couch, used the remote to turn on the gas fireplace, and stared into the flames as I quietly sipped from my wineglass.

"Trouble sleeping?"

I twisted around to see Erik appear from behind me.

"What gave you that idea?" I replied, somewhat sullenly.

He didn't answer. Instead, he walked around the couch and positioned himself near the mantle of the fireplace.

"Sleep is one thing about being alive that I do not miss," he said. "It was always more of an annoyance than anything else. Second only to eating. I don't miss that, either."

"What do you miss?" I asked quietly.

Erik was silent as he contemplated. "The weight of piano keys beneath my fingers. Composing and playing my own music." He hesitated and then whispered, "My lessons with Christine."

"You miss her a lot, don't you?"

"Yes."

"What is it like having a love like that?" I asked suddenly, emboldened by the alcohol rushing through my veins. "I can't imagine a love so powerful that it transcends space and time."

"You seem to have forgotten the part where I was the monster who kidnapped her and held her against her will and she was in love with another man and chose him instead of me," he countered dryly. "I wouldn't call that a great example of love."

"Yeah, but we already established that she may have regretted leaving you and that's why you're still here."

"That is entirely speculation—"

"Damn it! Can you just _pretend_ that I'm right and she's out there waiting for you?" I cried. "Just for a moment? So that at least one of us can have a happy ending."

He stared at me, stunned into silence by my unexpected outburst.

Pulling my legs to my chest, I buried my face against my knees and promptly dissolved into tears.

Erik shifted uncomfortably.

"You have been drinking…," he replied unsteadily. "Perhaps it would be wise for you to go upstairs and try to get some rest."

"It won't help!" I wailed. "It won't change that fact that he's gone and he's never coming back."

"Who's gone?"

"Ben! He married that homewrecking bitch Carly. And then he called to rub it in. _That's_ why I ran outside last night. _That's_ why I got locked out. And none of my friends understand!" I spit, frantically waving my hand in the air in front of me. "They're _happy_ he married her. Happy! They say this is just what I need to finally move on, but I don't _want_ to move on! It's really easy for them to sit on the sidelines and make judgment calls. They don't know what it's like to have something wonderful only to have it taken away without your consent, to love someone so much that you feel like nothing by an empty shell without them."

"I do." The couch cushion dipped subtly as Erik slowly sat down. "I won't lie to you and tell you that the pain eventually goes away, nor will I fill your head with meaningless platitudes about it getting easier with time. I'm not sure it will. But for what it's worth, I understand. The pain, the hurt, the grief, that paralyzing fear that you'll be alone forever…. I know."

Resting my chin on my knees, I peered up at the ghost sitting next to me. I don't think I'd ever seen him sit before—or perform any other ordinary actions for that matter. He had always stood, usually keeping a considerable distance between us. The movement made him seem so real and life-like, so human. In that moment it seemed like we were just two really close friends commiserating about failed relationships and lost loves.

Maybe that's because we were.

The thought tugged a small smile from my lips, a smile which Erik timidly emulated. It was awkward at first, as though the simple motion were completely alien to him, but then his bottom jaw relaxed, and he allowed his lips to curve into a warm smile in return.

I thought that hearing him laugh was something to behold, a sure sign that he was growing more comfortable around me. But it was nothing compared to the expression he wore now. Mask or not, the meaning beneath it was easy to read. His yellow-gold eyes met mine and in them I saw compassion and understanding reflected in their depths. We were kindred spirits, each sharing in each other's pain and crippling disappointment without judgment, both of us acutely aware of how soul-crushing it was to lose the person you cared about most.

As we stared at each other, silently communicating all the emotions that words seemed incapable of expressing, an unexplainable shiver of… _something_ worked its way up my spine. The moment was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, as if Erik had suddenly realized that he had shared more than he wanted to. He averted his gaze, focusing instead on a point somewhere over my shoulder.

"How do you deal with it?" I asked. "How do you keep on going in spite of it?"

A self-deprecating smile replaced the warmer one that had graced his lips a few seconds earlier. "I'm not sure I'm the one to ask," he replied. "I didn't."

My eyes widened in horror when I realized that he was referring to his own death, and I could have kicked myself for being so selfish and wrapped up in my own misery to remember that before I went and shoved my big dumb foot in my mouth.

I was about to apologize when his expression softened once more. "Don't make the same mistake I did."

"Okay," I said in a small, strangled voice. I wasn't sure how to take what he'd just said. Was he merely cautioning me against the pitfalls of sinking into depression, or did his comment come from genuine worry about my well-being?

The idea wasn't so far-fetched. We were friends, after all. Friends cared about each other. Right? I swallowed, suddenly unnerved at the way my heart fluttered at that thought.


End file.
